


Above Gold | ON HOLD INDEFINITELY

by alekstraordinary



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Battle of Five Armies - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Courtship, Dwarven Traditions, Dwarves Don't Know How To Communicate, Everyone Loves Bilbo Baggins, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, Misunderstandings, Multi, Politics, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, very slow slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2020-12-31 06:49:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 42,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21104225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alekstraordinary/pseuds/alekstraordinary
Summary: "Balin was so very old, and so very tired of his Kings making all the wrong decisions."A story about the fates of Erebor following the Battle of Five Armies after a Dwarf, an Elf, and a Hobbit had found themselves in the right place at the right time.





	1. PROLOGUE—stroke of luck

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE READ
> 
> (1.) I recognize that Tolkien has made a decision regarding the end of the Hobbit and because of the continuity and plot specifications Jackson followed through but given it's a stupid-ass decision I've elected to ignore it as you should be aware since it is a fix-it fic after all so yes things will be canon-divergent here
> 
> (2.) I also recognize that there is a book canon but since I very much prefer the movies and I will be basing ninety-five percent of the fic on the movies some things will be different from what's written in the book. Honestly besides this whole "fuck you everyone lived" the thing that's going to be the most vastly different from the book canon is that ages of the Dwarves are changed and so:  
* Balin Dwalin Dori Glóin Óin and Bifur are OLDER than Thorin  
* Bofur Bombur and Nori are ABOUT Thorin's age  
* Kíli Fíli and Ori are YOUNGER than Thorin  
I know that Kíli's and Fíli's age are specified to be their 70s and 80s but given their movie portrayal it's going to be more of late 40s/early 50s and Ori is the youngest in early 40s taking that Dwarves reach maturity at 40.
> 
> (3.) There likely will be quite a few things that I take from fanon since there isn't all that much information on the Dwarves to begin with and besides that you will certainly see me implementing some of my favourite headcanons into the narrative such as:  
* Thranduil has been almost completely blinded by dragon fire  
* Dís looks very similar to Thorin and acts very similar to Thorin spare the fact that she actually thinks and Frerin used to have the looks of Fíli and personality of Kíli  
* the 'Ri brothers used to live almost in poverty back in Ered Luin but Bofur and his family did live in poverty  
* Dwarves are completely accepting of same-gender relationships and find them perfectly normal (as they should) while Hobbits are well... conservative  
* the only people capable of rational thinking in the Company are Bilbo Balin and Óin  
* Yavanna created Hobbits  
* Dwarves are the cheesiest and softest when it comes to their courtship traditions and they just have awful awful difficulties with expressing their emotions.
> 
> (4.) I will certainly be using some Khuzdul although mostly for pet names, and there will be translations for whatever word I use down in the author’s notes at the bottom. I will also be putting portions of text in italics when I want to emphasis that a character uses language different than Westron while speaking to someone who doesn’t necessarily know that language.
> 
> (5.) I don't have a very big knowledge about Middle-Earth just yet and I have a rather bad record of keeping multi-chapter fics so please be gentle and patient with me. I genuinely want to do my very best with this and pour all the love I have for the Hobbit into this and I'm determined to put as much work into it as school and my other duties allow. I’m going to try to keep posting one 3k-5k* words long chapter every two weeks but if I’m behind the deadline it will probably just means that I’m very busy or polishing some things off and the update is coming. If you want to stay up to date in case of delays I suggest you follow me on Twitter @alekstraordinar. I tweet a lot about Dwarves…  
* that is only my estimate but despite my best planning attempts some chapters might turn out to be 2k and some might turn out to be 7k. Who knows!

Balin was old.

He was already old by the time the exiled Dwarves of Erebor settled in Ered Luin, after a long time of wandering through Middle-Earth without a place to call their own; his face marked with deep wrinkles and furrows as the Battle of Azanulbizar shook the foothills of the Misty Mountains by the gates of Khazad-dûm and King Thrór was mourned with young Prince Frerin; his beard and hair interlaced with white and grey when Smaug loomed over Dale, burning everything in his way before claiming the Lonely Mountain as his own. He had fought in numerous battles throughout his life--came victorious out of many of them, buried just as many friends as the result of them, and he had seen more places his world had to offer than the vast majority of Dwarves ever got to see. One thing, however, remained perfectly unchanged throughout his long life: no matter the obstacles along the way, no matter the bitter times of sorrow and difficulty, no matter what had _ ever _ happened, he had remained loyal to the noble line of Durin and its heirs.

Balin was really old.

He had always been close to the direct descendants of Durin, to the Kings and their Princes, both as an advisor--following in his father's footsteps while Dwalin busied himself with more combat-related duties--and as a friend. He had been there when Thrór slowly slipped into gold-sick madness; he had been there when Thrór died by Azog's hand; he had been there when Thráin decided to turn back to the hills of Dunland before choosing Ered Luin to be their new home; there when Thráin disappeared into thin air like a smoke ring blown away by a gusting wind; there when Thorin suffered for years in exile, tormented by the need to reclaim what was rightfully his; there by his side through all the perils and dangers their journey back to Erebor had to offer. _ That _ was a constant in his life. He had always been there when the Kings of Durin's Folk needed him.

Balin was so very old, and so very tired of his Kings making all the wrong decisions.

Being so close to the royal family and having spent all his life by their side, Balin knew that something terrible was bound to happen the very second he saw Thorin lock his eyes on the Raven Hill in the midst of the battle. As brave as the Dwarven King was, he was also often brash, and stubborn, and once he had gotten his mind set on a goal, he wouldn't stand down even if he had to pay for it with his very own life. And that was exactly what Balin immediately knew he had to prevent, that no matter how the fight ended and no matter how many lives were to be lost, there couldn't be a Durin among the ones they would have to mourn. Too many of them had Balin buried or seen lost; he simply could _ not _ lose these, too. Not like this, not so soon after reclaiming what they were yearning towards for decades, not because of Thorin's blind thirst for revenge, putting himself and his young sister-sons in grave danger. And so, he followed them to Raven Hill that gloomy day, together with Dwalin, both of their minds set on the sole task of looking out for the Sons of Durin, of protecting them until their last breath and making sure that their inherent recklessness wouldn't lead to their ultimate ends. 

Panic poured into Balin’s mind and spread through his entire body like vicious poison, nearly paralyzing his limbs and bringing his breathing to a halt the moment he lost sight of Thorin and his young Princes on the Hill. Everything he feared could happen that was slowly becoming a terrible, tangible reality. The place was still infested with Orcs coming at him in steady but small waves, rendering him nearly incapable of figuring out where any of the Durins might have gone. Dwalin was fighting nearby, working his way through the masses at a pace far quicker, but his eyes were skimming far over the hordes’ heads, clearly searching for the very same thing Balin was. Had it been any other moment, any other place or time, Balin would never admit his brother’s fighting skills to be above his own, but it was not the time to give into Dwarven pride, not when something so much greater was at stake. 

“Dwalin!” he yelled over the hideous screech of Orcs, the blade of his sword dripping with black goo. “Brother, cover my back! I need to get to Thorin!” 

Although Dwalin was prideful in his own right, he did not question Balin’s request, understanding the threat of the situation they had found themselves in. Now, with his mind occupied less with defending his own life, Balin charged forward and in between the walls, as fast as his old legs could carry him, his breathing thick and catching in his throat, dark brown eyes scouring his surroundings in haste. The darkest and most painful possibilities were crossing his mind at an alarming pace as he made his way through the ruins, the icy bane clenching its fist on his heart. When his gaze fell upon a familiar figure, he nearly cried out with relief, but the sound disappeared from the back of his throat as soon as it had appeared there, giving way to a lump, nearly choking him.

His voice was ragged as he exclaimed “Kíli!” his hand clenching on the young Dwarven Prince’s arm as if to make sure that he was still alive, not a ghost who came there to mock him. “Where is your brother?” he demanded, although something terrible was painted in those soft features and big, pleading eyes. “Where is he!” 

“He went upstairs,” Kíli spat those words out, visibly shaking but trying to keep his composure, trying to act _ adult _. “He told me to wait here.”

It felt as though something had punched Balin in the stomach, pushing the little air he still had in his lungs out and causing his head to spin. “No,” he breathed, as he looked up to the top of the crumbling tower. There, harshly cut on the grey endlessness of the unforgiving sky, his worst nightmare seemed to be coming true. Azog held Fíli out in front of him like a ragdoll, the Crown Prince’s feet dangling over the ledge mockingly. The Pale Orc saw them, both of them, standing down there in the dilapidated courtyard, watching every twitch of his muscle. It was Kíli’s sharp, horror-filled inhale that made Balin act, knowing that there was nothing he could do but hope, _ hope _ for a stroke of luck, _ hope _ that there was someone watching out for them, just like he hoped the day Thrór fell.

“Catch him,” Balin ordered, his voice firm despite the numbness crawling up his arms and legs. “Catch him!” he repeated, louder, grabbing the poor dumbfounded lad by his shoulder and pushing him forward. 

The dull thump of two armour-clad bodies clashing made him wince, eyelids falling shut for a terrible second, his sword hand shaking for the first time since he had learned how to wield a blade. One second only was how long Balin had allowed himself to be weak, to process, to prepare, for as soon as his eyes met the tangled mess of limbs, he knew there was no more time to waste. Pushing his dirty sword back into its scabbard, he nearly launched himself forward, knees meeting the ground with an unpleasant sound. His heart nearly split into halves as he heard the smallest, most vulnerable little whimper forming the single word: “Fíli?”

“Go!” was all Balin said, trying to ignore the excruciatingly creaking wheezing no creature should ever make, his hands finding a gushing wound with hard-learned speed. He was looking down at what seemed to be a dying Dwarrow, so painfully young, who just yesterday was first learning how to write under Balin’s watchful eye. “Go!” he insisted, warm blood spilling over his cold fingers. “You can’t help him now, Kíli, do you understand? You have to go find your uncle. Go!” 

Kíli made a broken sound, one that would more suit a wounded animal than a Prince, but he did as he was told. He fumbled with his own sword, his eyes never leaving Fíli’s paling face as he stumbled backwards, nearly tripping over his own feet. If he was going to cry, he wouldn’t let Balin see. He ran off, in the direction opposite to where all of them came from. A strange thing it is indeed, to be in shock so great that you dare not even question the orders you were given, when you don’t even look back at what might be your brother’s last moments. They were always together, Fíli and Kíli, inseparable from the very moment the youngest one was born. Their mother used to say that there could never be one without the other, just like there could never be light without darkness and, in that moment, as he tried to stop the bleeding of what could very easily be a fatal wound, Balin hoped that, just this once, Mahal would see to it that they were not left in the darkness.

*

Men were weak. Men were short-sighted. Men were stubborn. Men were infinitely easier to deal with than Dwarves.

It had been the moment Thranduil's rangers had brought word back to his Halls that a party of Dwarves, of all things, had been captured during scouting that it became clear that whatever ill news or sick objectives they had been bearing, it would not end in mirth and that it would, inevitability, affect the Elvenking himself. Of all the vermin plaguing the green plains of Mirkwood, seeping chaos into its deep roots, it _ had to be _ Dwarves that were brought to him. And not any Dwarves, no--it had been Thorin Oakenshield himself, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, the rightful Heir to the throne of the Lonely Mountain, and his friends. There had been an alliance between the Mirkwood Elves and Ereborean Dwarves once, back mere decades before Smaug the Terrible burned down Dale and made himself at home inside the Mountain. But the fragile peace between the two races began to crumble when Thrór claimed Elven stones for himself, and later shattered completely when Thranduil refused to sacrifice the lives of his people to face a dragon. Indeed, it seemed like the Valar decided to play a joke on him to put Thorin Oakenshield on his path.

Many things could be said about Thranduil, but that he was blind or easily fooled were not among them. As soon as he had laid his eyes on that blasted Dwarf, he knew what their goal was, where they were headed and what it meant. Their lot rarely left the safety of their mountains and caverns once settled, never bothering to travel the Middle-Earth, and so seeing the Ereborean Heir there could only have one meaning--they had found a way into the Lonely Mountain in spite of the dragon. It had posed an opportunity there for the Elvenking to finish all his businesses with the Dwarves once and for all, but hoping that Thorin would be wiser than his predecessor had been foolish. All Thranduil had asked of him in return for granting their freedom and safe passage out of Mirkwood was what was rightfully his to begin with: the Elven stones that were once sent to Erebor, but never returned once the gold-sickness ruled King Thrór’s head. The offer, of course, had been declined due to stupid Dwarven pride and stubbornness. 

Bitterly swallowing the Dwarven party escape, Thranduil was not yet willing to admit his defeat. As soon as he had heard the news of Smaug's killing, he had gathered his army and marched to Dale with the aid for the Men, and then further to the Mountain to give Thorin--now _ barely _ King under the Mountain--an offer once more. There were thousands of Elves as well as dozens of Men against just thirteen Dwarves, yet still there had seemed to be no means of peace, not with the aid from the Iron Hills approaching. The battle between the three armies lasted but a few minutes before it was swiftly interrupted by something far worse--Orcs and Trolls and Wargs running down the hills and instantly putting an end to whatever conflict and whatever honour there was to preserve between the Dwarves, Men and Elves.

And Thranduil cursed him, oh, did he curse Thorin Oakenshield and his obstinacy, for it had led not only to the loss of one of his best captains, not only to putting the life of his only son at risk, but also to the deaths of many Elves, losing their blessedly immortal lives in a war that was not theirs. Even the Elvenking himself had to find himself in the middle of the fight, with Orcs swarming everywhere, launching and charging at him from all sides as he wielded his sword and took his stance on Raven Hill. He was there for a reason, searching for Legolas, for if there was any harm done to him during this battle, Thranduil would have Thorin's head. However, in his near-panicked scanning for the Elven Prince, he had found someone else, and a sight he didn't quite expect.

There was not much his eyes could still see after being nearly blinded by the blaze of dragon fire, but from the little he could distinguish and from whatever blanks he could fill in with sounds and smell, he understood what was playing out right in front of him. His former captain of the guard was on her knees, her terrified scream cutting through the chilling air like a sharp knife as a pale creature loomed several feet away, holding something smaller but equally afraid. As a ray of pale sun fell onto the Orc's blade, Thranduil's instincts ordered his movements before his mind could catch on, before he could realize that what he was doing was not only hazardous, but also that it was to help someone he resented with such passion. 

Thin Elven sword flew from where Thranduil stood as no more than a silver stripe, sinking right between Bolg's eyes as his own blade plummeted into the Dwarf he was holding in his great hand. Silence took over the ruins as the Orc's corpse fell to the ground. "Move," the Elvenking ordered shortly, some inexplicable haste and worry guiding him as he moved forward, not giving Tauriel a single look. He knelt down, hands reaching out towards to the one of the bodies that still seemed to cling to the world of the living, albeit barely. "He's alive." 

"Kíli?" The raw emotion and devastating grief in Tauriel's voice caused Thranduil's heart to clench in a displeasing way, a memory of loss so great it nearly tore him apart gnawing at the edges of his consciousness. He barely remembered anything from that day, all of what happened pushed away into the darkest corners of his mind, kept under lock and key, but no matter the protective wall he had built around it, some part of him knew that this must have been the same way he had sounded when he lost his wife.

"He's still alive," he repeated with strange and incomprehensible insistence in his voice as he took Tauriel's hand and guided it to press firmly at the wound gaping in the young Dwarf's chest, his breathing shallow, eyes unable to focus on anything. 

Tears poured down Tauriel's face as she followed the instructions she was given, shoulders shaking, but even in as much fear as she must have been feeling in the moment, fear of nearly losing something so, so dear, she still turned her gaze at Thranduil, and through trembling lips she asked, "Why?"

That he could not answer, not to her, not truthfully. He could not dare to say that he knew the foul taste of loss, and that if he could take action to prevent something so _ pure _ from being infected, he would do his very best to do so. "Because it is real," he told her simply, rising back to his feet. He still needed to find Legolas, to make sure that he was safe and unharmed. Thranduil played the role the Valar so clearly wanted him to take here--he gave one of the Sons of Durin a chance of surviving the day, and perhaps, if the young Dwarf was to see the light of the morrow, then there also would be a light to guide them towards a better, bloodless future.

*

Hobbits were not made for war. 

They hadn’t got the sharp eyes and lean bodies of Elves, helping them guide an arrow; nor the broad frames and strong arms of Dwarves, letting them wield heavy axes; nor the tactical and strategic skills of Men, allowing them to lead armies. Hobbits were made for the Shire and its quiet and peace and green hills--for farming, and gardening, and sewing, and cooking, and ale-brewing, and pipe-weed leaves drying, and repairing. They were not made for negotiating with Trolls preparing to eat their friends, or wandering aimlessly through Goblin caves and playing riddles with strange creatures, or rescuing the aforementioned friends from Elven prisons, or climbing mountains, and _ certainly _ not for stealing from dragons.

Hobbits were not made for adventures, thank you very much.

And yet, despite knowing that, Bilbo Baggins found himself on an adventure, miles and miles far away from Hobbiton’s little rivers, houses with round doors and the comfort of his own armchair, doing things that no proper Hobbit would even _ think _ of doing. All of this had been brought onto him on a day entirely ordinary, when nothing in the sky or earth would suggest that it would be the one to change him forever. Thoroughly confused and on the verge of panicking that night, when thirteen Dwarves had come into his home like it was their own, talking about journeys, and mountains, and piles of gold, and a dragon, of all things. They had all been loud, and crude, with no manners whatsoever, dressed in strange clothes and smelling like leather, warmth and a _ promise _. It had been when the moon was shining high in the clear, star-specked sky and humming and a low song of deepest sorrows and yearnings filled the many rooms of Bag End that a Took had awoken in Bilbo’s heart.

For the many, many days and nights there’d been to follow their departure from the Shire, doubts and worries would haunt Bilbo’s mind--some of them speaking of the consequences he would inevitably have to face upon his return, family and friends left in utter confusion at his sudden disappearance, or the Sackville-Bagginses getting their hands on his belongings, while others spoke of the threat of never making it back home looming over his head, or the constant discomforting feeling of not belonging with his new companions. It had taken him quite some time to fully get adjusted to the Dwarven ways of being--to their bushy, braided hair, to their tattooed hands and sharp axes, to their booming voices and crass mannerisms. It certainly hadn’t been of any help that their leader disliked Bilbo so openly and looked at him with something in his eye, something so deeply hurt and offended that there were times when such a look had been enough for Bilbo to reconsider his decisions all over again. 

As the moons passed, seasons changed, and Bilbo had gotten used to the Dwarves, he had begun to notice that in the between f their mocking, and prodding, and taunting, they… genuinely cared about him. It hadn’t been long after that Bilbo had realized that he cared about them too, and that there were very few things in all of the world known to them that he wouldn’t do for them. They had become a family to him, of sorts, a kind of family he had never known: close and loving, willing to do anything it could possibly take to save one another. However, not being a Dwarf and an outsider still, it put Bilbo in a position entirely different in the means of protecting the ones he never wished to see harm upon; it had given him a way of doing something that had to be done, but simultaneously, something that could put an end to what they had been building between each other since that night in Bag End.

If he had the opportunity to go back in time, Bilbo was quite certain he would have done the very same thing. Having Thorin look at him like he had betrayed him hurt so very deeply it felt like his heart was collapsing in on itself, but it ultimately brought the desired effect--the dragon-sickness had broken. What hadn’t broken, however, was that _ cursed _ Dwarven pride and stubbornness, the one that led Thorin, his sister-sons and two closest friends to Raven Hill against all better judgement, sentencing them to almost certain death. 

_ I’ve grown very fond of them _ , Bilbo’s own words from Esgaroth rang in his agonizingly pounding head as he came to, the world blurry in front of his eyes, sticky hotness dripping down his temple and further down onto his cheek. _ And I would save them, if I can. _ His guts were twisting with nausea, limbs strangely heavy, and there was a dull pain radiating from the side of his head where an Orc had hit him, rendering him unconscious for Yavanna only knew how long. A small exhale came out of his mouth, one shaped like the name of the Dwarf he came here looking for in the first place, and as soon as that thought shone in Bilbo’s cloudy mind, he was already back up on his feet, unsteady as they were, and he dashed toward where the sounds of a fight could still be heard.

He got there, at the top of ruined stairs leading down from a steep slope to a frozen lake just in time to see Azog leaning over Thorin, black hair spilling around his head like a veil when his arms fell down and a blade sank into his chest. A scream rose up in Bilbo only to be stopped by a ball of terror that suddenly appeared in his throat, nearly choking him, letting only a weak squeak move past his lips. It was as if his feet froze to the ground in an instant, immobilizing him completely, eyes widening but perfectly unable to move away. All he could do was stand there, watch the Dwarf he was so determined to save struggle, wriggle on the ice before his body shifted, sword rising up to pierce the Pale Orc’s own chest. In a blink of an eye, their positions changed, with Thorin kneeling over his enemy, hands steady, taking in his very dubious victory. 

When Azog’s movement came to a complete halt, when it was certain that he was dead, Thorin… stood up, of all things, and that stupid, _ stupid _ thing was what snapped Bilbo back to action, back to pursuing what he came to Raven Hill for. “Thorin!” he screamed, as loudly as his tightened lungs would allow him, already making his way down to the lake. “Thorin Oakenshield, sit down! Right this instant!” 

“Bilbo?” There was weakness and exhaustion in his voice, but there was also unspeakable _ relief _ to be heard as his sword dropped to the ground. He’d won. There was no need for him to fight anymore, the least not the kind of fighting one could do with a weapon. Bilbo’s hands clenched on the front of Thorin’s armour with a strength that he would not suspect himself to have as he pushed the wounded Dwarven King back down to the ice-clad surface. He did not like having him so close to the fallen enemy, but even this determined, Bilbo wouldn’t be able to drag someone this size away. Especially not in his condition. 

He shook his head, either at himself or Thorin, as he reached to the torn cloth. “Shh, don’t talk,” he blurted out, barely able to control his own movements. This couldn’t be the end. Not like this. Not right now. Not when there were still so many things left unsaid. “Don’t move. Lie still.” A retch shook Bilbo’s frame as he looked down upon a deep wound bleeding profusely, quickly pouring out onto chilling skin and soaking into clothes. It took him all the willpower he could muster to press both of his hands firmly against the cut, to put pressure on it despite an opposing groan. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” Thorin muttered, his words sounding all kinds of too breathy, too heavy. “I wish to part from you in friendship.”

Another erratic shake of his head and another almost painful grit of his teeth caused Bilbo to nearly break apart. “No.” He refused to hear whatever dying speech Thorin had prepared. No, he wouldn’t allow that, he wouldn’t let that happen. “You’re not going anywhere, Thorin. You’re going to live.”

The corners of Thorin’s lips quirked slightly as if Bilbo’s words amused him, as if life was already slipping away from him. “I would take back my words and my deeds at the gate. You did what only a true friend would do. Forgive me.” His hand crept slowly, tiredly over his side to rest on top of Bilbo’s shivering ones, fingers clenching ever so slightly. “I was too blind to see. I am so sorry that I have led you into such perils.”

Bilbo scoffed, a pathetic cracking sound, nearly a sob. “No, I…” he drew a breath. “I’m glad to have shared in your perils. Each and every one of them. It’s far more than any Baggins deserves.” He looked up to the sky, almost as if he was searching for something, as if what he could feel under his fingertips was too terrible to acknowledge, no matter how painfully real it was. “And I will gladly share in many of them to come. You’re not… you’re not, Thorin. The eagles are coming. Just… just stay with me. Please.” 

No matter his helpless pleas, it seemed as though Thorin was already beyond capable of hearing, of listening, perhaps seeing him anymore. “Farewell, Master Burglar.” His lips hardly moved, his voice barely above the faintest of whispers. “Go back to your books and your armchair. Plant your trees, watch them grow. If more people valued home above gold, this world would be a merrier place.”

The most bitter of tears poured down Bilbo’s face. The eagles were coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are!
> 
> As much as I've loved every fix-it fic I've read so far what I was really craving and missing was an actual showcase of how the Durins survived the Battle as well as the events immediately after (which will be the topic of the few first chapters) so I've decided to write it by myself.
> 
> I hope that you've enjoyed what you've read so far and I'd very much appreciate feedback!


	2. CHAPTER I—red sun rises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! 
> 
> I've been writing a lot lately and a prologue never feels to me like a proper chapter so since I have a few chapters written ahead I've decided to post this one ahead of the schedule. From now on you can look forward to updates approximately once every two weeks but if it should take longer I will be warning about it on my Twitter (@alekstraordinar). 
> 
> I hope you will enjoy this proper beginning of the story!

A red sun slowly crept up the clear sky, bathing the quietude of the battlefield below in its first pale rays. It ran down the steep hills surrounding the foothills of the Mountain, shone over the ruined Eastern Gate, and played in glassy eyes and broken pieces of armour of those who had fallen. Silence spread there like a thick blanket, the air almost completely still, but it was anything but tranquil. The morning rising over Erebor after what, unknown to its participants yet, would be called the Battle of Five Armies, was nothing like the ones in the Shire. No birds were to be heard singing, no flowers to be seen opening their petals towards the sun, no warmth and sweetness of grass to be smelled. There was only the stench of death radiating form a kingdom of corpses lied out on blood-soaked ground, and occasional buzzing of flies feasting in rotting wounds. Witnessing the sheer gore of this was enough to make even the best pipe-weed taste bitter.

Yet, despite the ear-ringing silence and atmosphere so heavy it seemed to cling to the skin, the movements down on the field before Erebor had not once stopped, not throughout the night, nor at the break of dawn. War was a costly thing, and quite a messy one at that--not only had it claimed hundreds of lives the day before, it also left many behind to clean its dark toll. Most of Men, Elves and Dwarves to be left standing were shuffling around, in and out of the Mountain's Entrance Hall, setting up tents and camps, rationing the supplies, tending to the wounded, and moving corpses into piles to be burned later. But some of them found themselves too overwhelmed by either grief at the loss of their close ones, or with shock holding them too tightly in its grip to be able to move. They could be seen, sitting among the dead with empty faces and trembling hands, staring somewhere off into the distance with eyes nearly as unseeing as the lifeless ones at their feet. It seemed to had been collectively agreed to let them mourn in their own way, to let them stay where they were until they felt strong enough to gather themselves back together and help the others. As terrible of a thing as it was, there simply was no time or pair of hands to spare to take care of those who severely damaged were only on the inside. 

In the midst of this all, a Hobbit seemed especially small.

Gandalf almost didn’t notice him, although he was specifically searching for him as the morning came. There had been certain matters requiring the Wizard’s attention shortly after the Battle, hence he had had to leave overnight, rendering himself unaware of the condition of Heirs of Durin. The Company were nowhere to be found, undoubtedly trying busy themselves with whatever task to keep the mind away from dark thoughts. Even if not for the want to acquire information, Gandalf needed to check on his friend, for he still felt responsible for his fate. And Bilbo he found: impossibly tiny, with his knees under his chin, wrapped in what seemed to be Dwalin’s fur and young Ori’s scarf as he sat on a broken fragment of the Gate near the Elven medic tents. Judging by a rather significant amount of dried blood on the side of his head, clumping some of his curly hair together, as well as covering his hands, Bilbo himself required some medical attention, but he was left to process the events of the Battle just like every other person still paralyzed further down, away from the entrance. 

Seeing him in this state made something shift inside Gandalf in the most unpleasant way, rub at a sensitive part and awaken more worries. Certain that Bilbo was too shut off away from the world to notice him, Gandalf steered away and instead turned his steps towards the makeshift camp kitchen the Dwarves had set up with the aid of Men and supplies provided by the Elves. It took him only a couple of seconds to spot two very familiar faces among the crowd, both clearly tired and having had suffered their own wounds, but still more than willing to help where they could. 

“Would you, by any chance, have a hot drink for an old man?” the Wizard’s voice boomed over the business of the kitchen, successfully getting him the attention of his old companions. A few more heads turned towards him as he spoke, surprised at the sight of such a strange newcomer, but with far too little energy to phantom, and very possibly even experience curiosity, for they returned to their tasks almost immediately. Meanwhile, Bofur’s and Bombur’s postures seemed to relax, like Gandalf’s presence alone was enough to ease their woes.

Bombur gave him a smile from by the great pot he was stirring in, and although the simple gesture was quite comforting and giving hope that the morale hadn’t fallen altogether, it held no cheeriness in it. “Shouldn’t be an issue, Master Gandalf,” he said, pulling a wooden spoon out of the boiling stew and settling it down on the nearby makeshift table. “I’ll go through what we have and see what can be made for ye. Quite some supplies the Elves brought.”

The Wizard nodded, gratefully, as he settled himself down on one of the many sacks full of produce there were lied on the rubbled floor, every single one of them bearing the marks of Mirkwood. It was good indeed to see that, in spite of all their differences and the conflict that had brought them at Erebor’s foothills in the first place, the three races had seen reason to look past their previous disagreements for the sake of providing care to those who needed it, and slowly beginning to build a brighter future from that day forth. All sides had suffered greatly and paid a price, but there was a chance that they could finally buy peace with it, no matter how unsteady things seemed to be for now. 

Reaching into the pocket of his robe to retrieve his pipe and whatever pipe-weed he still had left, Gandalf spoke up again, attempting to make himself sound as unbothered and nonchalant as he could bring himself to: “How long has he been sitting there?”

Bofur didn’t reply right away, taking his time to finish peeling the potato he held in his hand, a basket filled with cleaned vegetables standing by his feet. “Hasn’t moved,” he finally sighed, his voice weary, as he threw the root into the pile and reached for another one. “Not an inch. Been there since they took Thorin and the boys.” He drew a long breath, eyes flickering up to gaze over Gandalf’s shoulder. “Bombur tried bringin’ him supper, but he didn’t budge. Óin just told us to let him be, let him process on his own.” 

“Hm, I see,” Gandalf hummed, stuffing the last of his leaves into the bowl of his pipe and igniting it quickly. He inhaled deeply, letting the calming smoke fill up his lungs and chase some of the tension away. Perfect circles of blue smoke crossed the air just as Bombur made his way back to them, silently passing Gandalf a steaming wooden cup. The Wizard accepted it with a thankful nod and took a sip, rather pleased to discover it was strong, bitter tea. Albeit not perfectly brewed, it was as well prepared as the conditions allowed, and with a lot of Dwarven care. “Tell me, wherever is the rest of the Company? I don’t believe all of you got the kitchen duty, did you?” 

Bombur shook his head, returning to his cooking. “Course not, there’s more than enough help with it here.” He waved his arm vaguely to the Dwarves and Men busy with portioning meat, peeling vegetables, chopping everything up, bringing pots with water and carrying out plates with food on improvised trays. “Bifur’s out in the field, helpin’ out with the dead.”

His brother made a sound of agreement. “Aye, along with Glóin. Dwalin’s also out there. He’s angry, really properly angry. Always is when he’s worried. Doesn’t eat either. Came here before sunrise to check on Balin, saw Bilbo, gave him his fur and went back away.” Bofur smacked his lips, the lines of his face tense. “Haven’t seen him since. Probably workin’ himself to the bone.” 

Eyebrows drew together on Gandalf’s wrinkled forehead as he listened to the Dwarves speak. Not only was he unaware of the fate of the royal family: due to his departure he was also left in the dark regarding what had happened to the rest of the Company during his absence and taking into consideration Bilbo’s rather unresponsive state, it seemed like it was a good moment to gather information. “Check on Balin?” he repeated, tapping the mouthpiece of his pipe against his bearded chin. “Is he quite alright? I’m afraid I wasn’t able to stay long enough yesterday to make sure you were all in the right shape.” 

Bofur and Bombur exchanged tormented looks, whatever glee sparked at the sight of the Wizard quickly burning out to a dry crisp. “Not sure if alright is the right word,” Bombur admitted, grabbing the basket from by Bofur’s legs and putting it up on one of the tables. “He and Dwalin brought young Fíli from Raven Hill. Wheezing like a dog, barely alive.” He grimaced. “Elves took him to the tent, said nobody with no medic experience was allowed in. Then Kíli and Thorin were hauled in, lookin’ as bad if not worse. Seein’ them like this, well… Balin broke down.”

“Couldn’t get him to calm down,” Bofur confirmed, raising up to his feet to assist his brother with further preparations. “Dwalin’s Dwalin, he got his ways. Balin…” he shook his head, the ears of his hat flapping, earrings jumping in between dark strands of his hair. “Had to get Óin to give him somethin’, put him to sleep until we know… until we _ know _. Same with Ori,” the Dwarf added as he threw a handful of carrot cubes into the pot. “Came through once everythin’ settled and sat with Bilbo for a little. Gave him his scarf after some time, you know, so he wouldn’t get cold. Then wandered in here looking for his brothers and started bawling his eyes out. Óin had to get him to sleep, too.” 

“Dori was worried sick, you must’ve noticed how much he mothers Ori,” Bombur continued, his mouth full of what likely was originally intended to become part of the meal for everyone. “But we still need all the hands we could get. He’s carrying out food now.” 

Gandalf listened intently to what was being said as he blew out more clouds of smoke, his cup of tea almost empty. Three, five, nine, twelve… someone was missing. There was thirteen of the Company, fourteen with Bilbo, fifteen with Gandalf himself. He had missed someone, hadn’t he? Bofur and Bombur were here; Bifur, Dwalin and Glóin out helping with gathering the corpses; Thorin and his sister-sons in the dire need of medical attention; Óin providing aforementioned medical attention; Balin and young Ori asleep; Dori distributing out the freshly-prepared meals…

“Nori,” the corner of Bofur’s lips twitched ever so slightly as he glanced at Gandalf over his shoulder. “Ye missin’ Nori.” He then gestured with the knife between his fingers at a pile of bags of supplies, stuffed in between two larger pieces of the Eastern Gate’s debris where, upon closer inspection and a squinch of his eyes, Gandalf could see a pair of Dwarven boots further connected to the rest of a Dwarven body as well as a head with a very recognizable hairstyle. “Passed out right before dawn. Not before lifting a few pins off the Elves, that is.” 

They snickered, briefly, rather desperate to alleviate the grimness heavying on their shoulders almost painfully, slumping their postures and drawing tired lines into their faces. It was clear as the sky outside, that no matter how tightly the Company were clinging to the shredding threads of faith that Thorin, Fíli and Kíli, their King and his Princes, their _ family _ , would recover, it was very likely that they would not see the light of the morrow--and that was still believing that they hadn’t departed to the Halls of _ Mahal _already. Venturing out on this Quest, something deep down in Gandalf’s gut always warned that this is what their adventure could end in. Loss, grief and pain that time could never mend. Bofur and Bombur, it seemed, were perfectly aware of just what a grievous situation they had found themselves in, and by the way they talked and moved one could easily read the icy, overbearing fear restricting their every breath. 

And there was nothing Gandalf could do. 

“Well,” he said, leaving his seat and depositing his pipe away into one of his pockets. “I think I shall try to talk to our burglar myself. Perhaps I will have more luck with getting through to him. It’s been a while, too--I should hope the shock has begun wearing off.” 

“Oh, Master Gandalf!” Bombur moved quickly, grabbing the first bowl he had at hand and pouring a sensible portion of soup into it. “Could ye take it to him? It’s been a long time, and the night was cold. He should have somethin’ to eat.”

The Wizard smiled, once again taken aback by how creatures who seemed so coarse at first, were able to have immeasurable amounts care inside. “Of course. A hungry Hobbit is no sight anyone would want to see here. I’ll do my best to have him finish it,” he assured the Dwarf, taking the meal from him. He picked up his staff from the ground, not bothering to put his hat back on, as he followed his steps back to where he was previously headed. 

As he walked, he could hear the heavy thumping of boots behind him suddenly, and not a heartbeat later Bofur was by his side once more. “Be gentle with him, alright? Please?” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his coat. “He… ain’t nobody goes to the way he is and comes out easy. He’s been through things I think no Hobbit ever been through. Nor should.”

Guilt, Gandalf suddenly recognized the feeling hiding inside his own chest, as he looked at this kind, honest Dwarf, so full of worry. He felt guilt.

“I’ll be as gentle with him as I can,” he spoke, and he fully intended on keeping those words, for Bofur was right--Bilbo Baggins has seen and experienced things no Hobbit had before him, and likely no Hobbit ever would after him. “But I will not give him false hope, or make promises I cannot keep. I do not think he is able to handle any more disappointment or heartbreak.” 

Bofur nodded, understandingly, but his lips were pressed shut tightly, unadulterated sadness gathering at the corners of his eyes. No more words were spoken between them, as there was nothing that could be said to mend the situation that was brought onto them. Gandalf turned away, simply, letting his companion deal with this wave of woe, without prying gazes and curious ears focused on him. After all, he didn’t want to arrive to where Bilbo was located when the stew had already gone cold. Chilled food would certainly not bring the bit of comfort it can provide while hot, steaming and fresh. In times like these, one had to seek anything, even the smallest sources of solace in order to be able to get through the dark times. And these were surely very dark hours for Erebor. 

Despite being fully aware of the Hobbit’s condition and having had been given some time to prepare himself, seeing Bilbo hurt like this was still difficult to bear. Fragile he looked, sitting there on a huge piece of the Gate all by himself, nearly drowning in the fur and scarf that were given to him by Dwalin and Ori, yet somehow still managing to seem as though he was freezing. Dark circles were drawn around his glazy reddened eyes, his hair ruffled, the grime and dried blood on his face only adding to this image of utter misery and indescribable heartache. Telling him that, if he were to venture out on this Quest, he would not return the same, this was not what had Gandalf had in mind, nor was it what he had hoped for. Hobbits were beings able to withstand more than their inconspicuous looks would lead one to believe, but even those who were the strongest and seasoned in many sorrows had their breaking points. Then there were the things that nobody should ever be sentenced to have to endure, and being kept in the dark about one loved ones’ chances of survival were most certainly among those. 

Balancing his staff and hat in one hand, and a hot dish in the other as his bag bounced against his hip, Gandalf climbed up the pile of rubble with but a hint of struggle. The tents of medics were set up quite close to the demolished entrance, allowing the flow of fresh, but freezing air, blowing almost directly at where the Wizard sat. The stone under him was just as unpleasantly cold, allowing chills to dig deep into his bones and, at the moment, he wished he hadn't smoked the last of his leaves minutes prior, for the faint glow of the pipe would provide a hint of heat, even if only a shade of what could had been felt in the kitchen. 

With what could very well be a fool’s wish, Gandalf reached out to offer the steaming stew to Bilbo. “Bombur was rather insistent on having me bring it over to you,” he spoke in a soft tone, watching carefully the Hobbit’s blank face. “Quite difficult for me to imagine you willingly skip a meal, all things considered. You should eat something. It’s getting terribly chilly, and this will warm you up.” 

Initially, there was no reaction, and for a brief moment Gandalf feared that his friend was lost too deep to be pulled back, if not for a miracle, but as the long seconds passed, he finally twitched. He didn’t fully react, not really, he didn’t take the meal into his hands, but rather shifted them ever so slightly to allow Gandalf to press the bowl into his palms. His fingers clenched around it, more from instinct than a conscious action, his throat bobbing. “Th…” he croaked out, the sound barely louder than the wind whistling between the cracks in the stone around them. “They…”

“What’s that, my dear fellow?” Gandalf leaned in, only a little bit, not wanting to startle the Hobbit. He was still mostly shut off, even if he seemed to be starting slowly speaking again. 

Finally, a sentence pushed its way through tightened throat and dry, cracking lips: “They took them in,” Bilbo rasped quietly, eyes moving away from the horizon for what was likely the first time since the day before. “Into… into the tent. Yesterday.” He looked down, fingernails grazing over the coarse surface of the bowl. He curled in on himself, somehow even more than he already was, as though he wanted to melt into the fur resting on his shoulders and disappear from the gut-wrenching uncertainty the reality had to give. “Wouldn’t let me in.” He scrunched his nose, a mannerism that earned him the title of _ little bunny _ back in Beorn’s Halls. “Óin came out a few times. Didn’t say anything.”

Gandalf nodded. “They are doing whatever is in their power,” he reassured, or the very least _ wished _ he sounded as reassuring as he intended. Truth be told, Gandalf himself wasn’t entirely sure whether he had a lot of faith in the Sons of Durin’s survival, as the information he _ did _ gain before departure suggested their wounds to be rather grievous. “Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli…” Bilbo flinched at the sound of their names like they were too painful to be heard, “...are under Elven care. Which, I’m perfectly certain, is the best medical aid in all of Middle-Earth. If there is someone able to help, it’s them.”

A frail, distressed sound could be heard. “Tauriel… Kí-” he choked, inhaled sharply, shook his head. “The Elven maiden. The one from Mirkwood? She… she’s in there. With them. Didn’t come out yet.”

“Ah, Thranduil’s former captain of guard?” Gandalf stroked his grey beard. “I met her shortly, when she was accompanying Legolas. I talked to him last night, to Thranduil, I mean. He mentioned that Tauriel earned her banishment in the first place because she decided to go to Lake Town upon hearing that Kí-... that one of the Company needed help.” He reprimanded himself internally for being so reckless with his choice of words while the last thing Bilbo needed was someone adding to his sorrow. “If that were truly the case, I do believe this would not be the first time she had saved a Dwarf’s life. Probably not the last, either.” 

“I think… I’d prefer if, if nobody needed saving anymore,” Bilbo sniffled, carefully rising the steaming dish. “I just want to know… I just want to _ know _ ,” he added nearly soundlessly as he took a small sip. A hungry Hobbit is an awfully unnatural sight, and thus despite the boundless pain in his voice and no closure in the nearest future’s sight, Gandalf let out a breath of relief. He’d rather have Bilbo devastated but with a full stomach, stead of having Bilbo devastated _ and _ starving. This was all the consolation there was to offer.

A strand of blood-clustered hair fell onto Bilbo’s eyes as he focused his severely limited attention on the stew, and suddenly Gandalf really wished he hadn’t been so selfish to smoke the remains of his supplies by himself. It was clear as the slowly raising day that the Hobbit needed it vastly more, but perhaps it was for the better--he was still rather only half-aware of his surroundings and the passage of time, and being influenced by substances could only further push him down. That was likely the reason as to why Óin decided against giving the Hobbit any sleep medication, as opposed to Balin and Ori who might had needed them equally, but in an entirely different manner. Truth be told, all of Erebor--Dwarves, Men and Elves alike, every single one of them looked like they needed a good night of dreamless sleep. Even Gandalf found himself gradually becoming more and more weary, all the experiences of the past days weighing him down, but as much he wished for his friends to rest, there was no time for _ him _to do so. There were still things he needed to see to, needed to mediate, advice and even order to keep the fragile peace standing for as long as possible, all of that knowing that there was something much, much darker looming far away, but coming closer like clouds chased by gusting wind. 

Dáin, in Thorin’s replacement, Thranduil and Bard the Bowman were supposed to meet for council at noon to discuss their loses and steps to take from that day forth, to find ways of rebuilding Dale as well as returning the Mountain to its initial functionality, all while repairing the alliance between the Mirkwood Elves and Ereborean Dwarves, and the Dwarves now dwelling in Ered Luin had to be notified of the victorious battle as well… Gandalf ran a hand over the strands of his knotted hair, sighing deeply. The day was still pale, there was plenty of time for him to ride back down to the town and see to all the matters that needed seeing to. He could certainly spare a few more moments to give company to someone who clearly so desperately needed it, albeit Gandalf was entirely unable to provide what Bilbo needed the most--hope. 

They sat there together for a long while, watching as the sun crept higher up the dull sky, its rays slowly spilling into the Mountain and throwing tall shadows onto the walls. Not another word was exchanged between the two of them, and Gandalf had no intention of trying to force his dear friend into a conversation that was so clearly redundant now--all he cared for was to see to Bilbo finish his meal and regain some of the energy at least in his body while his mind and heart were so frail. A few members of the original Company passed by, checking in on them more than the tents: Dwalin with blood all the way up to his elbows and brows furrowed, Nori still groggy from sleep and with hair slipping down out of its meticulous style, Bofur wanting simply to see his friend than anything else. Every one of them who wasn’t either in critical need of help or passed out after being given medication had come to see to Bilbo at least once, and if it were any other situation, the Hobbit would be more than delighted to see just how deeply his kind soul can make those around love and care for him.

Now… now it would be for the best if Bilbo had someone at his side at all times, even if to just be there silently. Dwarves were made of different material-- for battles and enduring tragic losses, very much unlike peaceful Hobbits. Just as Gandalf meant to leave his spot, climb down the debris to ask Dori he had just caught a glimpse of to accompany Bilbo for the time being, the flap of the royal tent raised up and Óin stepped out, his eyes dark and sleeves of his shirt rolled up. He did not look like he was bearing good news, an impression that only strengthened when his expression became even more gloomy as he turned his face at the Hobbit. Seeing that, Gandalf hastened his movement, getting to the bottom of the pile of rubble within a blink of an eye, wordlessly warning Óin to choose his words carefully. 

The old Dwarf seemed to be more than dreadfully aware of how every single pair of eyes turned at him the second he appeared, and how every pair of ears perked up to listen to what he had to say, every heart came to a halt in anticipation. “I did what I could,” he told Gandalf, quietly enough so that only the two of them could hear. “Elves did what they could. It’s all in _ Mahal _’s hands now.” Not waiting for the Wizard’s reaction, he called out, louder: “Bilbo! Come with me!” 

Upon hearing his name, the Hobbit jumped in his spot, the wooden bowl falling out of his shaking fingers and tumbling down. He didn’t move for a time, looking at Óin with the most heartbreakingly terrified expression Gandalf had _ ever _had the displeasure of seeing, before he seemed to remember how to move his limbs. He let Dwalin’s fur fall off his shoulders, tugging at Ori’s scarf like it was suddenly choking him and leaving it behind as he struggled down. There must had been a hundred people in the Entrance Hall when Óin put his hand firmly on Bilbo’s shoulder and nearly dragged him towards the tents, yet despite a hundred of breaths hitching in a hundred different ways, and a hundred of thoughts running through a hundred of heads, the air was as dead and quiet as the bodies covering the fields at the Mountain’s foothills. 


	3. CHAPTER II—calm after the storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> I've been keeping a good track of writing consistently lately and seeing how I'm currently working on chapter V I've decided that I can post another chapter today! This time is also the first time where I use actual words in Khuzdul so please remember to see the End Notes for translations!
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy it and as always I appreciate your feedback and encourage you to follow me on Twitter @alekstraordinar

Time was an unforgiving thing, a power standing high above anything even remotely caressed by the curse of mortality. Were it to be a frail flower, a mighty tree or a seemingly endlessly expansive mountain, if the time could have it, the time shall have it eventually. Such was its nature, along with the cruel tendency of always working, shifting and moving to spite everyone who so desperately yearned to take a hold of it, to control the flow of it, even if it were to be for a little while. It always seemed to stir in the direction opposite of the desired one--to slow down and stretch out at impossible lengths at the moments of greatest pain and distress, only to rush forward in a burning haste whenever cheeriness and bliss arose. It had its wicked ways of altering reality to its will, yet always remaining strangely indifferent to the world it was meant to rule. However, as much of a torture it could induce, there could also be bittersweet consolation taken in its never-changing passage--that no matter what the fate would put down on the paths of life, time would always continue to move, leaving all the hurts--and the joys--behind. 

Except, it seemed as though it had stilled entirely, came to a halt never to pick up its flow again the second the flap of the Elven medical tent fell down behind the Hobbit’s and the old Dwarf’s backs, cutting the warmly golden-coloured inside from the bleak harshness of the world outside. There was not a single sound or gesture made for what could very well be an eternity, nobody daring to do as much as to move or let out a breath, let alone pick up their suddenly abandoned duties. The Iron Hill and the Ereborean Dwarves all stood with their muscles tensed and their hearts seemingly too full of worry to make a single beat; all of the Mirkwood Elves glancing at their unlikely allies with more interest than they could ever spare to where the Sons of Durin were being kept; all of the Men of Esgaroth confused and with no clear understanding of the weight of the situation, but still trying to remain as respectful as they could in the light of what lead to the Battle in the first place. It felt like a veil had been draped tightly over the makeshift camp growing behind the broken Eastern Gate, immobilizing, suffocating, pushing whatever spirits had managed to lift themselves up back into the dusted floor. 

The stillness carried on forever and centuries must had passed before the paralyzing cloak had been lifted up, allowing the Dwarves, Men and Elves to let out their breaths, and for their hearts to return to their steady work. It was Gandalf’s booming voice that forced the time to move again, no doubt needing to use his magic to force it back to its normal pace. “Very well!” he said loudly, putting his pointy hat on his head, a few grey hairs clinging to its brim. “I’m more than happy to see that everything and everyone is being taken care of! Truly, the station here is looking already impressive!” he cleared his throat, making a vague gesture with his staff, as if trying to shepherd everyone back to their assigned work. “I will see to it that Lord Thranduil, Lord Dáin and Bard are informed about this!” 

Adjusting the strap of his tattered bag, he looked over at Dori and Bofur--one of who simply happened to be there, and the other one rushing forward the second he saw Óin emerge--and nodded at them, and somehow it was enough to signal “I must away, but I shall be back. Do take care of each other while I’m away, and hold onto whatever optimism you might still hold.” That was all the farewell he had to share, spare for one more look towards the medics tent and a very, _ very _ heavy sigh.

“That wasn’t overly promising, was it?” Dori let the words out, as the broken lives around them picked up their mournful buzz again. He had been rather known to take a special care of his appearance, trying to be tidy and clean even in the most difficult of circumstances, but the times had changed drastically, and so now his scrupulous braids were slowly coming undone, but the Dwarf didn’t seem to pay any mind to it. It was terribly uncharacteristic of him, which in the moment, somehow made everything so much more grievous. “Let’s go back. Still many things to be done, we won’t help anyone by sulking around.” 

Bofur closed his eyes for a brief moment, trying to suppress all the dark thoughts fussing around inside him. With as little information as they were being given, the mind had the natural habit of trying to fill in the blanks as best as it could, albeit what it was providing very grim visions of the darkest of scenarios. “_ Suppose not _,” he agreed simply, not wanting to add to his companion’s misery as they walked side by side to the camp’s kitchen, now with more business in it as more and more began to wake up from restless sleep. “You reckon somethin’ is going the right way in there? Or the opposite?”

Dori puckered his lips as his head twitched a little to the side, not in a full shake, like he was meaning to but then changed his mind. Instead, he put his heavy hand on Bofur’s shoulder and squeezed is in a way that certainly was supposed to be reassuring, but it only made more concerns arise. “I reckon there’s no point in thinking about things we have no control over.” He squared his shoulders a little. “I reckon _ Mahal _ is watching over his children today. I reckon I can see my brother who I’ve been looking for since before the dawn!” 

Indeed, his younger brother was out of the hiding spot he had taken when the red moon was still high on the sky’s dome, and had left it but once since he awoke, spare it was only because of Bofur’s direct request to see whether Gandalf had managed to convince their burglar to eat, or talk at least. Now he was sat on one of the tables, with his bushy hair completely freed from its usually hairstyle and puffing around his freckled face as he was going through something spread in his lap--no doubt whatever it was that he managed to pick up from the Men and Elves around. After having had spent so much time in his close proximity, Bofur grew to realize that Nori’s weakness for shining objects was less of greed and more of an impulse that he seemed to be unable to control. He saw the Dwarf restricting himself in the treasury in the midst of Thorin’s dragon-sickness, or in Beorn’s Halls when he wanted to be polite, but more often than not, Nori’s fingers were working before his mind could even catch on. 

“Where were you!” Dori exclaimed as he approached his brother, expression scrunched in honest-to-_ Mahal _ rage. “Do you have any idea how worried I was for you _ ! _” 

In response, Nori rolled his eyes. “Keep your voice down, why don’t ye?” he groaned with nearly tangible irritation as his hands disappeared in the pockets of his tunic, searching for more items. “Got a headache, all of us do. And not in the mood for your yellin’. Don’t ye got somethin’ better to do?” 

With indignation growing on him, Dori let out a sound of frustration, throwing his arms up into the air, not minding how many Men and Iron Hill Dwarves working nearby were glancing over at them and perking their ears up, trying to amuse themselves with anything other than duties and disastrous visions of future. “Something better to do?” Dori echoed. “Something better to do? We all have got something better to do! We all have our share to do while you… what were you doing, anyway, when I was searching for you? Were you going around pickpocketing again?” 

Nori smiled slyly, letting the shining pieces of jewellery drip through his fingers, glimmering in the rising sunrays slipping in through the cracks in the wall “Just a couple o’ keepsakes_ , _” he hummed, satisfied with himself for a split second before his brother’s hand knocked everything out of his lap, the brooches and delicate chains jingling on the floor, spilling at his feet. It was truly a small miracle that no Elf happened to be around at the time to notice it, for it would spark up a conflict nobody was in need of. 

Fingers clenched tightly on the hood of Nori’s jerkin, Dori pulled him off the table so they stood in front of one another. “_ Why? _ ” Dori asked flatly, the anger that seemed to boil his blood mere seconds ago now melted into something in the shape of disappointment. “Why do you behave like this? Especially now? Is this your way of processing what’s happening? Sneaking off away from me and stealing from those who, like it or not, are currently here to help us? Just… why do you have to be like this, _ sannadadith( _1)?” 

The expression on Nori’s face changed rapidly, eyebrows drawing together with a sudden wave of wrath as he broke himself free and took a couple of steps back, forgotten gems crunching under the soles of his heavy boots. “Don’t call me that!” he grunted. “Go find yourself something to do, if you’re so bothered with my sight! I can take care of myself, and what I do is none of your business! I’m not a pebble anymore, for _ Mahal _’s sake! Go bother Ori, that’s what ye do best!” 

If these words hurt, and there was not a shade of doubt that they cut, and that they cut deep, Dori did not let it show. He but crossed his arms over his chest, looking his brother straight in the eye, more of grey hairs slipping out of the beads making their best attempt at keeping the braids together. “Speaking of Ori,” he uttered, tone bland. “Did you perhaps think about checking in on him at least once since Óin gave him sleeping medication? Just _ once _, Nori? Did you think to check on our little brother, or were you…?”

“Stew!” Bombur exclaimed suddenly, raising his hands up in the air and spreading his fingers, eyes open wide as if he had just experienced an epiphany. His gaze skimmed around the Dwarves gathered around him, checking whether he had gotten everyone’s undivided attention. “Stew!” he repeated vigorously, making a gesture at the pot nearby. “Oh, Bifur, Dwalin and Glóin must be starvin’ out there! Completely forgot ‘bout bringin’ them in to eat somethin’! Dori, could ye come along with me? Would be easier to haul all three of them here if we did it together, huh?” He was already walking away, grabbing at the thick knots of his ginger beard. 

Dori, Nori, and Bofur were equally deeply confused for a moment, until it struck them, all in the same heartbeat, that once again Bombur was trying to diffuse the situation and make things slightly better as best as he could. His intentions were clear, painted all over his nervous posture, but now was not the time nor the place to call out his very questionable, yet so very Dwarf-like subtlety. The ‘Ri brothers didn’t exchange as much as a look when Dori followed Bombur away from the kitchen, shoulders slumping, like more weight had just been added onto what he already had to carry.

Bofur kept looking after them for a while, baffled. He had a brother of his own, and a cousin he was as close with as if they were parented by the same pair of Dwarves. They had their fair share of arguments and misunderstandings in the past, some of them ending with harsh words, some even in a fistfight, and there were more of them to inevitably come towards them in the future--that was but a natural part of having any relationship with anyone in this world. And yet, despite being aware of the always-present tension between Dori and Nori, seeing them lash out at each other this viciously, specifically picking the words they knew would hurt the other one the most, was unimaginable. He wanted to believe that this was caused by the stress of the passed days, and the fear of what next hours might bring, and the grief they were already carrying in their hearts without even knowing whether there would be something to grieve, however if Bofur wanted to be honest with himself, he sensed there was more to it, something deeper and something more sore. Alas, it was not his place to intervene. 

Careful not to add to his ire, and desperately unwilling to get onto his wrong side, Bofur averted his gaze and pretended to focus on cleaning one of his knives with a spare piece of cloth as Nori went down to his knees, picking up the delicate jewellery and gathering it back into his pockets, muttering something under his breath. They were left alone in the corner of the kitchen, the rest of the Dwarves and some of the Men of Esgaroth having had cautiously moved aside, most of them settled down on the floor and bags of supplies to have a meal, for the sun was already high above, marking the midday. A full day and night had gone past with no information, no news, no announcements whatsoever, and the more time was spent in this overbearing uncertainty, the more it was growing on everyone. Everyone was getting overly agitated, too close to the edge, increasingly irritated, wishing to finally know what was happening in the royal tent, whether it were relievingly good or devastatingly bad. 

Clearing his throat, Bofur risked turning his head over his shoulder. “You think they’re gonna be alright?” he asked, wary to make his tone as neutral as possible. 

What answered him was a scoff, a bitter sound filled to the brim with somber amusement. “What? Thorin and his heirs?” Nori raised up to his feet, toying with what seemed to be a silver brooch. It was quite a fine thing, for one of Elven making, definitely shining and beautiful enough to attract an eye or curious fingers. “No clue. I’d try askin’ Óin, but he ain’t even subtle ‘bout avoidin’ us.” He shrugged. “For all we know, they could all already be dead, and the rest just don’t know how to break it to all of us.”

A jagged chunk of ice fell into Bofur’s stomach upon hearing those words, a terrified shiver running down his spine. “Don’t say that!” he breathed out more harshly than he intended, spinning around on his heel to face his companion. “Don’t you talk like that, Nori. This doesn’t end here.” He swallowed down hard, a tight ring clenching around his neck. “Can’t. Not after everythin’ we went through. Not after everythin’ he went through. I… I don’t wanna imagine Erebor ruled by somebody else.” 

“What difference does it make ye?” Nori threw, closely inspecting one of the stolen chains. “You’re not even of Durin Folk. Never seen the Mountain before this suicidal Quest. It’s not your home. Why do ye care who’s goin’ to rule it now? Came here for the adventure, didn’t ye?” 

In retrospect, Bofur was certain that being punched in the face would had ached infinitely less than hearing this. He tried being understanding, did his best at remaining calm and acknowledging that Nori was only behaving like this out of tension and anxiety, but nevertheless that _ hurt. _ “How can ye say that?” There was sorrow spilling all over.. “What does my parentage got anythin’ to do with this? They’re not of my kin, but they’re my family. All of ye are. Course I want them to get better!” He wrung out the cloth he was holding. “I get it, Nori. I do. You’re scared, like we all. But ye don’t need to talk to me like this. Especially question my loyalties! Besides, didn’t ye come along with Thorin ‘cause ye got yourself into trouble ye couldn’t get out of?”

Nori’s head snapped up, fingers clenching tightly on the pieces of jewellery. “And who are ye to question _ my _ loyalties? Bloody toymaker. And you’re barely even that!” 

“At least I’ve got a Craft of my own!” Bofur blurted out in response, and as soon as the hot, angry, _ disgusting _ words left his mouth, he already regretted them, seeing a flash of unadulterated pain crossing Nori’s freckled features--his eyebrows twitched, lips pressing shut as he swayed back as if the wind was knocked out of him.

Tone changed now entirely, Nori spoke simply: “Don’t talk to me.”

Bofur moved, hand reaching out in a conciliatory gesture, desperate. “No, Nori. I’m sorry. You know I didn’t-”

“I said don’t talk to me!” Nori growled, throwing the fine bracelet at Bofur. He then stormed away, maneuvering between the Dwarves, Men and chunks of debris with well-learned precision, disappearing out of sight within the blink of an eye. Being the thief he was--or perhaps used to be--he knew how to move around his surroundings carefully, and blend into them with in such an impeccable way that it bordered with a miracle to find him again unless he specifically wanted to be found. Little did Dori, or Bombur, or Bofur know, but Nori had spent a good portion of the night watching over Ori’s sleep, slipping away from his hiding spot while nobody had been looking, and staying in the shadows as he had made sure that no nightmares bothered his little brother’s head. There was not a shade of uncertainty in the minds of anyone who knew him that it would be hours, if not days, before someone would see the flash of Nori’s copper-haired head again. And what a bitter irony there was in life, for Bofur to wonder how one could seek out the words to make a close one ache the most, only to do that exact thing not long after. His inability to keep his mouth shut when it was due and the perpetual need to speak whatever happened to cross his mind at the moment might had just costed him something very dear.

Bombur, on the other hand, knew better. 

He never talked much, or at least not if he was supposed to be the initiator of the conversation, only ever living up and beginning to chatter when explicitly asked for his input, and otherwise keeping to himself. He could come across as rather timid and taciturn--which he was--but it helped him develop a fairly keen eye on noticing when a conversation was needed, and when his natural silence was the best answer. There were instances in life, as unwelcome as they were, when words couldn’t mend whatever hurt had been made and trying to ease the situation down with blabbering would inescapably end with it becoming more embittered. What was there for him to say, when there was nothing he could do? Nohow could he ensure their King’s and Princes’ revival, provide the alliance between Men, Elves and Dwarves to bet settled, and he certainly couldn’t comfort Dori by saying that surely Nori didn’t mean anything of what he had said, and it was but the exhaustion getting to him, for who was he to pretend he knows someone else’s brother best? 

Therefore, Bombur knew better, and he simply stayed silent as he energetically made his way across the vast Entrance Hall, with Dori following shortly after. He might had had no words to say, but knowing that no further conflicts were needed in the already tense air, separating the fighting brothers from one another was the best solution to the situation he could offer. His intentions were clear and there was no elegance in the execution of his plan, but what mattered the most was that it had worked, no matter how miserable Dori seemed. Which, of course, Bombur understood. Any Dwarf would understand, in fact. Family relations were to them of utmost importance, always staying close with one another and very rarely going into arguments that would result in a permanent deterioration of said relations. Which, sadly, seemed to be exactly what had happened.

Trying to keep his walk as quick as possible to keep Dori away from Nori, they swiftly made their way out into the field. It had changed quite a bit since Bombur had been there last, which hadn’t been longer than a full day, but Dwarves worked fast, wanting to put the terrors of the terrible fight behind. All of the shock-struck soldiers had already gathered enough of their strength back to return to the camps sprouting inside the Mountain, or perhaps their friends and family helped them out, not wanting to lose their loved ones to the growing cold. The majority of the corpses had also been moved away, stack up in grotesquely morbid piles, some of them burning already, causing clouds of thick black smoke to raise up into the air. Dwarves, Elves and even a few Men were still out there, carrying on with the cleaning, dragging the lifeless bodies across the freezing ground, separating their kin from Orcs, Trolls, and other monstrosities. A few of them could be spotted taking a break, either letting themselves down on the freed patches of earth, or standing with their arms crossed and faces dark, grey and tired. 

Scanning the field with his eyes, Bombur quickly spotted his cousin in the company of Glóin fairly close to the remains of the Eastern Gate. Their armours, coats and even jerkins were off--no doubt getting too hot under all the layers during the physical labour--and now dressed in just their tunics with the sleeves rolled up they smoked their pipes, looking off somewhere ahead of them. They were so occupied with observing the object of their interest that they barely even noticed Bombur and Dori approaching, only acknowledging their presence after Bombur had placed his hand on Bifur’s shoulder. 

“It’s midday already, cousin,” he said, trying to make his voice as cheery as the circumstances deemed appropriate. “And food is ready. Why don’t you two take a break before it’s all gone, aye?”

Bifur let out a cloud of smoke from between his lips, nodding slowly, but his gaze never left whatever it was he was so focused on. “Aye, we could do that,” he replied, rather absentmindedly, biting at the mouthpiece, but in no other way had he shown that the words had actually gotten through to him. 

Glóin seemed equally detached from the world, one of his hands resting heavily on his side, thumb tucked behind his belt as he kept his pipe in between his teeth, head only slightly turning towards his companions as he finally raised his raspy voice: “He’s been at it since yesterday. Whole night, haven’t seen him do as much as take a seat. Only ever stopped to go see to Balin,” he informed, and it was only then that Bombur and Dori both realized, and noticed, what it was that was taking their friends’ attention so greatly. 

Further out into the field, in the midst of the part of it that was still covered in corpses, they saw Dwalin. His tunic now off, body spotted in smudges of blood and dirt, sweat pouring down his back as he walked to and fro, picking up bodies sometimes twice his size and carrying them off to the growing burning pile nearby. He was paying no mind to his surroundings at all, and there seemed to be no logic and thought put into his frantic movements, for he wasn’t even separating friend from foe, dragging everyone off to the same stack before returning for the next one. It was clear that exhaustion was slowly catching up to him even from afar, his muscles twitching whenever he lowered himself to pick up another carcass, his knees bending every now and then at a faltering step, his hair and beard completely flattened and sticking to his glistening skin. It was a disturbing sight to see.

“Workin’ himself to death, I reckon,” Glóin spoke up again, and there was sorrow to his words, like it wasn’t the first time he witnessed such a view and like he knew it certainly wouldn’t be the last. “Or till he passes out, the least. Just fear it might be the former before the latter.”

They all stood there for a while, silent, watching their friend going on about his chaotic, but how suicidal doings. As much as they saw their burglar shutting himself off both physically and mentally, Dwalin seemed to only cut off his mind while his body searched for an answer or a comfort that simply did not exist, and could be there never to arrive. Even with the sturdiness and resilience of Dwarves, there was a limit to what one could bear, and Dwalin seemed to be approaching said limit at an alarming pace, blind to his own breaking point.

Dori swallowed audibly. “We should stop him,” he stated sternly, and Bombur could only wonder whether this sudden confidence in his companion’s voice and posture was honest, or just another way of keeping himself away from thinking about his younger brother. No matter how pure his intentions might had been, the rest of the Dwarves wasn’t particularly eager about intervening, firmly believing that one should be left to themselves to process through their grief. 

“Should we?” Bifur asked doubtfully, but he pressed a thumb into the bowl of his pipe to suffocate the sizzling leaves inside nevertheless. “Think he might throw us into the fire, too.” 

Glóin made a deep sound back in his throat, throwing the ashes from his own pipe and sticking it behind his belt. “Rather have a burn or a bruise than see another of my kin die before my eyes,” he rumbled as he cracked his knuckles. “All of ye, come along. Can’t do this on my own.” 

In that they could all agree--Dwalin was a mighty and an incredibly fierce warrior. They all had seen him in the midst of the battle on more than one occasion, witnessed him cutting down his foes like they were blades of grass, able to face a whole army on his own if he were in the right frame of mind to it. Now it was obvious that he was caught in a trance similar to the fervor of a fight, but rooted at something for more terrible and far more hurtful. Words would not go through to him as he didn’t even see the world around, and so strength had to be put into works in order to stop him from exhausting himself to death. 

“Dwalin, that’s enough,” Glóin roared almost, his words clear and ringing, carrying on through the dead space at the Mountain’s foothills. There was no reaction, as it were to be expected, and Dwalin had only reacted when Glóin tried grabbing him by the arm. He jerked away, not sparing a glance, and proceeded to try to return to his suicidal work, but he would not be let to do so. Glóin attempted again, this time with Bifur standing on the other side of Dwalin, Bombur making a living wall between him and the dead bodies, Dori prepared behind. 

Fury arose inside Dwalin as he made a sound one could hear from a trapped animal, his fist crashing into Bifur’s face with a crunch of a broken bone. “Sod off!” he yelled, turning to deliver another blow, this time towards Glóin, was it not for Dori grabbing him from the back, dragging his arm down. “Let me be!” 

Nearly knocked out, but still conscious enough to see what he was doing, Bifur did not as much as hesitated to kick Dwalin in the back of his leg, successfully bringing him down to one knee. “That’s enough!” he repeated Glóin’s words, while Bombur tried getting their friend to look at him by yanking at his beard.

“Nothin’ ye can do, Dwalin,” Bombur said, with just the right amount of softness to his voice that he knew would not trigger another outburst. “Already done more than enough. Ye hear me? Don’t make us see ye get dragged into that tent, too.” 

That seemed to had hit a nerve, for Dwalin instantaneously ceased his fruitless attempts of trying to break himself free from three Dwarves holding him down tightly, and instead he sagged down to his knees fully. His breathing was coming out in short spasms as he raised his mournful eyes up, such a deep pain in them as if the soul underneath had been shattered completely, crushed and burned away only to leave a forever tender and aching wasteland behind. “Can’t ye see?” he asked, his ragged voice stumbling over the simple syllables, gaze wandering around. “Can’t ye _ see _?” he echoed, something raising up at the creased corners of his eyes.

Dori, Bifur and Glóin exchanged heartbroken looks as they listened, not yet risking loosening their grips. “My fault,” Dwalin finally whispered, nothing short of devastated. “All this. My fault.” He shook his head, lids falling shut and scrunching tight. “If I… if I had it in me to say no to him. If I had it in me to stop him. If I had it in me to _ protect _ him…”

The sun high above, in the manner of the never-changing flow of time, continued to move forward, indifferent, when on the fields before Erebor's Halls already soaked in the fallen ones' blood, there poured a rain of a broken warrior's tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. sannadadith (Khuzdul) — perfect younger brother


	4. CHAPTER III—in sickness and in health

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> As I'm posting this chapter it's actually my birthday so you can treat it as a reverse gift--from the birthday boy to you :) We finally arrive at some well-deserved Bagginshield content. This time there is again some Khuzdul so make sure to check the End Notes for translations and remember to follow me @alekstraordinar on Twitter for Dwarf content and possible changes in upload schedule!
> 
> And as always--please enjoy!

Death stank. Only the few lucky ones who never had the misfortune of finding themselves in its close vicinity while it was widely taking its reap were foolish enough to believe that death was but a natural occurrence, not vicious being of its own, spreading sickening stench wherever it crept. It was not the rot and decay, nor the metallic heaviness of blood, not even the staleness of wind. It had a foul, indescribable odour that, once experienced, would never leave one's memory, bringing back morbid images and raising an alarm whenever it could be sensed. It was a burden sent down on those who had seen death come for numbers far greater than but claiming the life of a loved one. Sickness, in turn, could easily be mistaken for death by someone spared the sights of battles, was it not for its ill sweetness playing a cruel phantom of hope, often fooling that there was still a chance to stop its spread and suffocation of life. The worst, however, was that once submerged in it, it bordered with an impossibility to get rid of it--the reek clinging to clothes and hair, digging deep into the creases of one's skin, nose, and most importantly--every crook and cranny of mind, never to leave again.

Like the grim twins they were, sickness and death could often be found together, hardly ever separate, the presence of one often heralding the soon arrival of the other. They both were all over Erebor, dark and sticky, filling the empty walls and quiet fields with its putridity and tangling themselves tightly around not only the wounded, but around the hope of those who had survived fairly unharmed. Many of those who had fought in the battle that burned _ up _ as quickly as it burned _ out _ were more than seasoned in combat and had faced many perils, and thus the stench of sickness was all too familiar to them, and judging who would soon be also taken by death came to them with an unwelcome and aching ease. Equally, it was clear to them when someone had _ not _ seen the devastation fight leaves behind before--it was obvious from the wide frightened eyes, little nervous movements and the blind belief that they would ever be able to breathe without the fetor of death at the backs of their throats again.

Bilbo, of course, was one of the latter ones, and having had spent so much out in a space where the gusts of merciful wind would chase the stench away hadn’t allowed him to adjust, hadn’t prepared him for entering a tightly shut tent for the injured. The contrast between the growing chill and nervous business outside, and the stillness and overwhelming warmth inside was nearly tangible, the hot air filled with a heavy earthy scent of herbs trying to mask sweet-sick illness lingering underneath. There was a fire burning in the middle, flames dancing trapped in a ring of stones, illuminating everything with a warm orange glow, the smoke escaping through neatly cut holes in the fabric of the ceiling. The abandoned battlefield and the growing camp behind the broken walls of the Eastern Gate remained quiet through the long hours, nothing louder than a murmur raising over the make-pretend peace, but in this closed space, it was ear-ringing despite the whispers of Elves and the murmur of cloth. 

There were three cots standing on the cracked floor--one of them alone, further inside, and two of them pushed together near the entrance. It was no doubt Óin’s doing to insist on keeping the two Princes together, as close as possible, for it was hardly a sight to witness before to see them alone, and they should not ever be separated. Especially not now. Their skin was pale, almost grey, marked with little cuts here and there, bodies covered in furs up to their chins, but even in their senseless state and clearly put under the influence of various weeds, their heads were turned towards each other, subconsciously searching for one another. Tauriel was sat on a low chair close to Kíli, looking strangely out of place here despite two other Elves being present. Her beautiful features were tensed, shadows growing dark under her hazel eyes. She looked anything but hopeful, a realization that put terrible dread into Bilbo’s belly, causing all the stew that he forced into himself in Gandalf’s company to raise up in his throat. Was it not for Óin’s firm but surprisingly gentle hand pushing him deeper into the tent, he wouldn’t be able to turn his eyes away from Fíli’s and Kíli’s faces. They were Dwarves all too young to be standing this close to the end of path of life. 

Stepping as quietly as his unsteady legs would allow, Bilbo walked further with Óin still at his side. It wasn’t until they had both reached the third cot when the old Dwarf gave a final squeeze and wandered back to where the Princes were asleep. For a terrible moment, Bilbo was certain that Thorin had already gone, and this was how his story would end, that after all the adversities he had to face and all the sacrifices he had to make, he would part with his world so close to reaching what he had dreamed of his whole life. With an unspeakable relief, the Hobbit noticed that it was but the trembling light playing tricks on him, and Thorin’s chest was raising up weakly with each breath. Although it seemed impossible, he looked even worse than his sister-sons, albeit it might have been simply the poor lighting emphasizing all the tired lines of his face, or the stitched cut crossing his brow and climbing up his forehead. His lids were closed shut until Bilbo approached closely, and only then, upon hearing a sharply drawn breath, Thorin opened his eyes, the same stormy blue as the sky outside.

“Bilbo,” he rasped, and his voice sounded unnaturally dry, as if despite being given the best care possible he was still refused water, leaving his throat cracked, and causing part of his words to catch at its rugged edges. Beads of sweat were shining on his face and dripping down his neck, silver-woven hair completely undone and spilling around his head, some of the strands sticking to the skin. His breathing hitched visibly the second he saw the Hobbit, his whole body going through a shaky twitch--but a powerless attempt to move, or shift to the side.

In an instant, Bilbo was by the cot already, bringing the nearby low stool close and lowering himself down at the very edge of it, his feet barely touching the ground. “Shh,” he shushed softly, his hands reaching without his saying to touch Thorin’s arm, were it for the Dwarf’s comfort or Bilbo’s own need to have a tangible proof that they both had survived Raven Hill. “Shh, I’m here. It’s alright. Don’t move.” 

As much as Bilbo would liked to believe that, for once, Thorin had listened to him, he was achingly aware that he was but too exhausted and too sickly to make any further attempts at changing position. He settled back into the furs and makeshift pillows instead, relaxing ever so slightly, like the mere fact of Bilbo sitting next to him had eased whatever worries were bothering his clouded mind. “Bilbo,” he said once again, breathily, some feverish care to his tone. “I am so glad to see you are here still. I worried you had already left for the Shire.” 

To that, Bilbo couldn’t help but snort bitterly, the perspective utterly absurd. Something stung behind his eyelids blurring his vision as his thumb mindlessly rubbed soothing circles into Thorin’s forearm. “No,” the Hobbit shook his head, some of the copper curls jumping on his forehead at the movement. “No, Thorin. No, I’m not… I couldn’t have left. Not until I’ve made sure you, all of you, are fine. Besides… it would be a shame not to see the coronation after helping a king reclaim his kingdom, would it not?” 

The very corners of Thorin’s lips quirked in similarly sour fashion. “I’m afraid that _ fine _is something I’m rather far from,” he admitted, right before he coughed violently, the sound unpleasantly rustling, wheezing in his chest. It was terrible enough for Bilbo’s hand to insensitively clench tighter, as well as to alarm Óin, but the old Dwarf hesitated and then retreated entirely under the surprisingly stern look Thorin sent him. The gaze of those concerningly glassy eyes then turned back to Bilbo, slipping from his face down to his torso. “You’re still wearing it,” he stated, matter-of-factly, but his previously grim smile brightened significantly. “I do hope it had served you well.” 

Between being knocked out unconscious, worried sick for his loved ones’ lives, and then closing himself off from the world around him, Bilbo had completely forgotten about what had been gifted to him before the Battle even began. The fine rings of mithril felt unusually cool under his fingers when he touched them, the shine of them peeking from between the flaps of the far too big, and now far too dirty, coat he had been wearing since leaving Lake Town. “Ah!” he exclaimed. “I… yes, it certainly made me feel safe. Although I suppose I should have taken a helmet instead,” he joked, emphasizing his words by scratching at the side of his face where old blood was staining it. “And I reckon it would have served you better, all things considered.”

Thorin closed his eyes for a moment, resting, and when he opened them again, he spoke with confidence: “I went into the battle easy knowing it would keep you safe.” His look then drifted away once more, past Bilbo’s shoulder and down the tent to where Fíli and Kíli were resting. “_ Namadinùdoyê _ ( 2) ,” he whispered, his voice harsher in Khuzdul. “I should have taken better care of them. I should haven’t have let them go with me. I should have looked out for them, _ niadoyê _ ( 3) _ . _” He was quickly becoming restless, as though something dreadful had planted itself in his head, gnawing at him through the haze of burning up, his face twisting in pain entirely different from physical. 

“No,” Bilbo uttered, shifting in his place, putting himself in Thorin’s line of sight again. “No, Thorin, don’t say that. You took an excellent care of them. If you hadn’t let them, they would have followed you anyway. We both know that. You, you can’t blame yourself. Can you hear me?” he grew insistent. “Don’t you talk about them like they were dead. Do you understand? You’re going to be fine. All of you are. All three of you. And don’t you dare speak to me as if it weren’t true!” 

Now turning breathless, Thorin muttered, half-deliriously: “_ Achrâchi gabilul( _ 4) .” He appeared to not even be aware when his native Khuzdul began seeping into Westron, rendering his sentences only semi-coherent. “ _ Achrâchi gabilul, _ but I must ask this of you.” He weakly moved his arm over his injured chest, and took Bilbo’s hand into his own, pressing something into his palm. “If I… if I don’t... “ he swallowed. “Take care of them. Please, for the love of _ Mahal _, take care of them. All of them. For me. Can you promise me this?”

Confused, and with paralyzing fear pouring into his heart, Bilbo clutched to Thorin’s hand instinctively, but his words stuttered. “Thorin…” he was begging, almost. “I told you not to talk like this.” He leaned in closer, fingers of his free hand raising to touch the strands of black hair. “You’re going to be fine. And then you can take care of them yourself. Hm? We… we both can. Together? Just, please, have mercy over me and don’t talk as if you were d-” 

“Think that’s enough, lad.” Óin appeared out of nowhere, interrupting the whatever helpless pleas were rolling from Bilbo’s faltering tongue. He squeezed the Hobbit’s shoulder as he urged him to stand up, to let go of Thorin who seemed to had already slipped back into his troubled sleep. “He needs rest. Fever makes him babble.” Óin’s eyebrows were drawn together on his wrinkled forehead, something in the shape of suspicion playing on his face, but there was also gentleness and compassion in his dark brown eyes. “Let’s get ye out, aye? Bet Bombur got somethin’ for ye to drink.” 

Although everything in Bilbo yearned to stay, to not leave Thorin’s side until he was absolutely certain that the Dwarf would wake up and say his name again, there was no energy left in him to protest, or as much as to ask for just a few more minutes. As they were making their way out, he spared one last look behind, catching the glimpse of Thorin’s, Fíli’s and Kíli’s sallow faces, but all it brought him was that prickling behind his eyes again. A blow of icy air welcomed them back in between the tall, unforgiving walls of the Mountain, sending shivers down Bilbo’s entire body, right down to the tips of his fingers and his toes. Óin stood by his side, silent, but understanding just how much distress it had brought the Hobbit to see the Sons of Durin in such a vulnerable and infinitely hopeless state. For once, he was glad that nobody tried talking to him, for he feared that if he was forced to open his mouth, it would open the gates of a flood he wasn’t certain he would be able to close again. All he could do was to inhale deeply, seeking means of grounding himself again in the coolness and buzz of life around him. 

Only once he could feel the lump in his throat easing itself down, no longer threatening to choke him, he realized that his fist was still closed tightly around the small thing Thorin was so adamant about him accepting. Still trembling from too many emotions stirring in him--most of which he couldn’t even begin to try naming--he opened his grip. To his utmost surprise, what he found on the palm of his hand was a small, rectangular object decorated with engravings he could not quite decypher. It took him a moment to realize that what he was holding was one of the beads Dwarves used to decorate their hair with, mostly to keep their braids tied. Moreover, it wasn’t _ just _ any bead. It was Thorin’s. 

Óin must had noticed it, for he stepped in close, one of his eyebrows raising. “What you got there, lad?” he asked, the way he pronounced these words strongly suggesting that he knew _ exactly _ what Bilbo had got.

Unexpectedly defensive, and irrationally unwilling to let the old Dwarf see, Bilbo folded his fingers over the little thing and shoved it into his pocket. "Nothing. It's nothing." He cleared his throat and forced a smile upon his lips, as dishonest as it was. "Thank you, Óin. For letting me see him? I think I might go look for Bombur now. You're right, I could definitely use something to drink." Not wanting to give his friend another opportunity to catch him in a crossfire of questions, the Hobbit moved, intending to head for the kitchen he was vaguely aware had been build not very far from the medical tents, but he hadn’t made half a step that he realized that there were eyes, many many pairs of eyes staring down at him. 

Ever since Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli had been dragged from Raven Hill and brought here, no one but the three Elves and Óin had been allowed around them. Bilbo was the first exception to be let in, moreover, he was the first exception to be specifically called in on a request. Seeing how everyone else was being still left in the dark regarding the health and survival chances of the would-be, would-not-be King under the Mountain, it was but a natural curiosity and the steadily growing unease that caused nearly everyone to abandon their duties once more and instead look at Biblo, who under the heaviness of it, and under the hope for good news and the silent pleading of even a shred of information, froze entirely. Óin said nothing to him before he returned into the tent, but it was rather obvious that whatever was happening on the inside was to be kept secret unless explicitly stated otherwise. Truthfully, even if it weren’t for that, Bilbo sincerely doubted that he would be able to recount his conversation with Thorin to anyone at all, for as much relief it had brought him to be able to speak with the Dwarf again, his state was anything but promising. 

With his thumb caressing the engravings of the bead hidden in his pocket, Bilbo averted his gaze from the curious faces and moved at last, walking fast across the rubbled floor and praying he could figure out where exactly the kitchen was without having to ask anyone about the directions. Surrounded by so many strangers with so many expectations of him, he wished to be among his friends again--to listen to Bofur hum under his breath as he puts leaves into his pipe, or the sound of Ori’s pen scribbling against the journal he carried around at all times. A strange thing it was, that Erebor was supposed to be a home reclaimed for the Dwarves of Durin, but so scattered and so endlessly scared it seemed as though everyone felt more homeless than they had at the start of their journey. 

Already aware of the Ereborean Kingdom’s vastness, Bilbo was eternally grateful of Dwarven secrecy this once, for it seemed that the camp raising up behind its stone walls hadn’t made it past the Entrance Hall which, in itself, was of unimaginably impressive size, but simultaneously, cover infinitely less ground for him to search. Trusting that he’s turned towards the correct direction, as well as believing that the kitchen would be the place where his chances of meeting one of his companions would be the highest, he did his best not to pay attention to those who paid attention to him excessively. Admits endless halls and unfamiliar faces, Bilbo felt especially small and defenseless, even in spite of his sword hanging firmly from his belt and, in that moment, he suddenly missed being a child still, able to run off to his mother whenever something frightened him, always having someone who would hold him close and assure him that everything would be fine. Oh, how he needed this now. 

To his dismay, as he finally reached where pots and bags filled with produce were placed, he discovered that not a single one of his friends could be found there. Nowhere in his field of vision could he spot Bombur’s fiery ginger hair, or Bofur’s hat, or Dwalin’s bald head. They were all off somewhere, it seemed, tending to duties other than cooking, as judging by the smell still lingering in the air, the midday meal had been served fairly recently. Disconsolate, Bilbo let himself down besides one of worktables, tucking himself away, hopefully in a way that nobody would notice him there. His fingers fumbled inside of his pocket again, skimming over the smooth surface of the already forgotten magical ring only to clench themselves around the uneven edges of the bead, fishing it out and putting it flatly on his palm. He wondered, even though there was an increasing pressure pushing at his temples from the lack of sleep, water and a proper meal, why Thorin was so very insistent on making sure Bilbo would accept this small gift. The mithril shirt, yes, that made sense to give away, in a sense, seeing how in the middle of his sickness Thorin recognized Bilbo as his only ally. But the greed for gold had broken shortly after the Battle had begun, had it not? Then why…

“Master Baggins?” 

Alarmed, Bilbo jumped where he was sitting, the bead nearly falling out of his hand at the rapid movement. He raised his gaze up, and then he raised it some more, all the way up to a familiar pale face surrounded by strands of long red hair. Tauriel appeared… awkward, void of the gracefulness the Elves usually characterized themselves with, wringing her hands out and with her features still expressing a deep sorrow. Completely wrong, if anyone were to be so blunt, but in all frankness, so was Bilbo. Among Dwarves reclaiming their long-lost home, Elves remaining indifferent and executing their orders coldly, and Men focused on providing for their close ones, Bilbo and Tauriel both looked equally misplaced, strangers in a crowd that managed to find the means of working together already. 

She clearly noticed just how much she had startled the Hobbit, for she curled in on herself, like her height alone could be offensive to the Dwarves passing by them. Miserable she looked, and Bilbo had a feeling bordering with certainty that he didn’t appear any more cheerful. Knowing less than the Elven maiden herself, he could offer no words of reassurance, but it cost him nothing to give her a shaky smile and the doubtful comfort of his presence. “Tauriel,” he said, trying to make his voice soft and steady. “Can I do anything for you?” 

Her palms still pressed together, she slightly shook her head. “Well, not quite,” she admitted. “The… the elderly Dwarf? Master Óin? He ordered me to leave, he said that I’ve been there all too long and that there isn’t anything for me to do there anymore.” She sighed. “Forgive me if I’m bothering you, I just… don’t exactly have anywhere else to go.” 

Shuffling to the side to let Tauriel wordlessly know that she was welcome to sit beside him, Bilbo responded rather bitterly: “Neither do I, I suppose.” He was still holding the bead tightly, as though it was his last, thinnest thread of hope that, in spite of everything that had been thrown at him and the unlikely party of Dwarves who grew to become his family of sorts, their story would get to have a happy end after all. “This place is far too big for a Hobbit like me to know my ways around it. My friends… my friends are back home now, but I’m still quite lost here. Besides, I wouldn’t want to. well, wander too far away.” His eyes flickered in the direction of the medical tents, still visible from where they were sat. “It didn’t exactly end too well the last time I wanted to do something on my own around here.” 

“I don’t want to leave him,” Tauriel spoke with blunt honesty and raw emotion, her knuckles turning white as she clutched tightly to something hidden in her hand. “Not again. It didn’t exactly end too well the last time I left him.” She forced a twitch of her lips at the Hobbit beside her. “It feels like the Valar took mercy upon him, upon all of us, but I fear they might change their mind just as quickly.” 

Bilbo watched her curiously, wondering whatever it was that she was toying with. “I think it isn’t for us to wonder what the Valar might plan or what to intervene with.” He pulled his knees up, doing his best at ignoring the inquisitive looks that were being thrown at them. Truly, for the proper Hobbit he was born to be, Bilbo managed to always find himself in the oddest of companies, and yet every time and without a fail he also seemed to become friendly with all of them. “I might not know much about _ Mahal _, but my Dwarves appeared certain he was watching over this quest. I think I’d rather believe that, too. But…” the tightness in his lungs returned as soon as the question began forming at the tip of his tongue. “Tauriel, you know more about their state than me. Please, can you be honest with me?” 

Bringing herself together more than she had before, Tauriel replied, everything about her weary: “I doubt my honesty will satisfy you, Master Baggins. I don’t have the answers you’re looking for.” Pain, all over her. “I cannot tell you whether they will survive, because I don’t know that. Their injuries are great. I have seen some die from such, and I have seen some recover from such. All I can tell you is that out of all of them, Kíli seems to be doing best. But it’s as small of a comfort to you as it is to me.” She hanged her head.. “I know that he wouldn’t want this, surviving if his brother and his uncle do not.”

For as short as she had known them, Tauriel seemed to capture the very nature of Dwarves with a remarkable accuracy. “It’s either all of them, or none at all,” he agreed. “But if there is one thing that I have learned about them is that they’re all horribly, _ horribly _ stubborn and loyal to a fault. If you say that Kíli is doing better, I don’t have a single doubt that Fíli and Thorin will soon follow.” He emphasized his words with a nod, although he did not know whether he was trying to comfort her or himself, but whichever answer it was, he knew that he was speaking from his heart. 

She smiled at him, gratefully. “He gave it to me,” she then added, a little gesture showing that she was referring to what appeared to be a black stone on her palm. “He said that it was gifted to him by his mother, as a promise for him to come back to her. I might not be a Dwarf, but I hope that it will keep its magic. Make him come back to me?” Her voice broke a little, but she composed herself swiftly, taught to keep emotions at bay at all times, and at all cost. “That’s something we both share, I see.” 

A few seconds it took Bilbo to understand that she was referring to the bead he was so firmly keeping in between his fingers, hand rested in his lap as he no longer felt the need to hide it away. He blinked then, gaze jumping between the bead and the stone before the dreadful realization of her implication washed over him with an intensity that knocked wind out of his lungs. He stuttered in his movements as he shoved the small brass thing into his pocket, standing up from his seat far too quickly and alarmingly than he intended. “I, uh, I need to go,” he told her, although it was a blatant lie for there was nowhere for him to go. He only knew he needed to stop this conversation and go, _ anywhere _. “I’m afraid I wasn’t very helpful to anyone since yesterday,” he chuckled nervously. “I’m very sorry, Tauriel. I, ah, I’ll come find you later, if that’s alright?”

  
Not waiting for an answer, Bilbo walked away, both from Tauriel and further from Sons of Durin as his heart pounded violently in his chest, and the little, _ little _ bead heavied on him more than the secret he had been carrying with him since that fateful night in Bag End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2\. namadinùdoyê (Khuzdul) — my sister-sons; my nephews
> 
> 3\. niadoyê (Khuzdul) — my boys
> 
> 4\. achrâchi gabilul (Khuzdul) — I'm (very) sorry


	5. CHAPTER IV—to fix which is broken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> I was a little hesitant about posting this chapter because I've taken a week-long break from fanfiction which put me behind in my writing schedule but now I'm working out a routine to write at least 500 words a day so I'm still ahead with writing. This chapter is mostly politics and explaining how Erebor should be restored so I apologize if it's a tad boring but it's just a part of the worldbuilding that has to be done. As always I encourage you to follow me on Twitter @alekstraordinar! 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

Conflict between races had been consistent and ever-present since sentient life had first inhabited Arda, thousands upon thousands years ago, back when the vast plains, deep forests and high mountains of Middle Earth were untouched by the hand of anyone but the roaring wind and the bright sun. Elves, Men and Dwarves seemed to had been created specifically to be as different as possible, one kind lacking the skills and predispositions of others, but making it up other in fields sometimes even tenfold. Where Elves missed on the raw strength and resilience of Dwarven muscles, they compensated with swiftness of their bodies and the sharpness of their eyes. Where Men did not particularly stand out in neither toughness nor flexibility, they were exceptionally good at adapting to the changing circumstances and tragic shortness of their lives, finding a hundred ways to replace the natural-born characteristics and make the most of the little time they were given which, in itself, was a great gift. None of them were perfect and they all bore a burden of some sort--were it to be of living too long and knowing too much, living too short and never understanding important truths, or living isolated and oftentimes miserable in this voluntary solitude, the worst of them, however, seemed to be the quite aggravating curse of stubborness. 

One might think that, given their clear gaps in abilities that could easily be filled in with the abilities of someone of a different race, they would promptly learn how to live together in harmony, utilizing their talents in a way that would benefit everyone around. That, of course, was not the case and it never had been, for the differences that should be the means of connecting and easing their coexistence, instead had spiked up hostility, resentment and mistrust, leaving the Elves backing away into their forests, Dwarves burying themselves deep in the mountains, and Men to be forsaken to wander through the boundless plateaus. Choosing to fence themselves off and live in separation from others, all they had brought onto themselves were to grow even further apart, their prejudices rooting themselves deep into the very foundations of traditions and worldviews. As decades, centuries passed the utter inability to find common grounds and the blindness to how perfectly their flaws and advantages fit into each other had grown to an issue of such a scale that it was rather a difficult thing to imagine two members of varying races have a peaceful and reasonable conversation. 

Having a Man, an Elf and a Dwarf speak of things of great importance, both to their personal business and the welfare of their people? That sounded like quite a recipe for a disaster, and Gandalf was many sorts of too aware of that as he made his way out of the Ereborean Entrance Hall when the midday after the Battle broke. He was rather unwilling to go on his way back down the field where Lord Thranduil had raised his tent, tucked away from unwanted but how curious and endlessly desperate eyes and ears of the survivors. It was there that Thranduil, Bard of Esgaroth and Dáin, in Thorin’s place, were supposed to meet at noon for what was, hopefully, going to be the first in a line of many meetings held to form and then maintain a long-lost alliance between the three races. That was, of course, provided there was someone there, someone objective and unbiased to mediate the gathering, making sure that the short tempers and old grudges wouldn’t be there to oppose the course of action that would be the best and most beneficial for everyone. 

That was to be Gandalf’s role, one he accepted with more resignation at his fate than any kind of enthusiasm. In the light of the whole Journey from Ered Luin, through the events of the Battle and its aftermath, as well as what had happened in Dol Guldur, the Wizard had found himself in the state similar to everyone scattered around the growing camp inside the Mountain--tired. Worrying about Bilbo, who would never wander this far away from the Shire if it weren’t for him, certainly didn’t help Gandalf with keeping his optimism regarding the mediation he wasn’t very much looking forward to. With hurts still fresh and wounds not yet healed, it was certainly going to be quite an experience, but far from a good one. If he hadn’t known that the fates of Erebor, Dale and Mirkwood weren’t resting on top of his shoulders and his ability to ease the situation, he would had find the blandest of excuses not to go. There were things in life, however, that one could not escape from, and this was certainly such a thing. 

Despite the darkest predictions, Gandalf forced a peaceful smile onto his face as he stepped in between the beautiful fabrics, only to find that he was the last to arrive. Perhaps seeing that the three had not killed or permanently harmed each other yet should had put his mind to rest, but the effect was entirely opposing and his whole frame tensed only more. Thranduil the Elvenking was sat at the head of the table, as he was the host and not a guest, leaning back in his chair in a rather forcibly nonchalant way, leafed crown decorating his head as he held a goblet in one of his ringed hands. On his right side, Bard the Bowman was situated with his shoulders slumped, circles around his eyes as deep as if he hadn’t had a moment of rest ever since a party of Dwarves came to him asking for help, which could had very well been true. Across from him there was Dáin Ironfoot, arms crossed over his broad chest, bushy eyebrows drawn together in a frown and a deep, stitched cut going across one of his cheekbones. The atmosphere was just as, if not even more than, unpleasantly sticky as the one filling the Mountain.

“ _ Mithrandir _ ( 5) ,” Thranduil welcomed him from over his cup, unseeing eyes fixed on some unspecified point in Gandalf approximate direction. “We have been waiting for you. A while now.” 

Biting down a snarky remark, the old Wizard took his place at the other end of the table, unwrapping the ragged scarf from around his neck in the tent's heat. He didn't fail to notice that the Elvenking was the only one with a goblet, but as much as he suspected that Bard simply refused one, Dáin likely wasn't offered at all, and that did not spell the success of the council. "My sincere apologies," Gandalf said as he settled down, gaze skipping over at one of Thranduil's servants in the hopes of acquiring a bit of wine for himself. "I'm afraid my loyalties and responsibilities reach beyond the, very fine might I add, people gathered here,, and I had to see to other interests before I could arrive. But none of that matters, now, does it? I see we are all here, so I suppose nothing else is stopping us from beginning." 

Bard spoke up this time, still plainly uncomfortable with being made equal to a King and a Lord, but quickly learning his ways of navigating through difficult conversations, remaining respectful but insistent on his cause and goal. “I think so as well,” he agreed, clearing his throat and clasping his hands together in front of him, resting them on the smooth surface of the table. “If I may, I’d like to thank both of you,” he looked at Thranduil and then at Dáin, “for providing help for my people this far. We all highly appreciate it, but I fear this is not enough.” He shifted, uneasy. “We have no place to call our own, and the winter is upon us. With how few of us there are, I don’t think it’s possible to being restoring Dale, or rise up any kind of shelter. Even that aside, we are left with no supplies whatsoever.” 

Listening, Thranduil tilted his hand to the side, signaling at one of his Elves to pour him some more wine, another one of them stepping forward to offer Gandalf a goblet as well. “My people and I will be more than happy to provide for yours until you’re able to cultivate the earth for your own.” He raised his cup a little. “Treat is as a sign of good faith to forming an alliance between the Mirkwood Elves and Men of Esgaroth. Or should you be called Men of Dale from now on?”

“There is no Dale yet,” Dáin interrupted, arms crossed still, the angered expression never leaving his rough features, tension of his jaw only deepening the fresh wound on his cheek. “And there’ll never be Dale without Dwarves.”

They all turned towards the Dwarf Lord, surprised at the seeming suggestion. “Are you saying that your people will help us with rebuilding the town, my Lord?” Bard asked slowly, wearily. Dwarves had betrayed his trust once already, a deed that cost many lives, many hurts, and many sorrows, and it only proved Men’s choice to make Bard their Master wise. Indeed, it had been a long time since the Men of Esgaroth could last pride themselves with having someone righteous to lead them, someone who would put their welfare over personal feelings and not let emotions blind the things of utmost importance. 

Thranduil smirked, amused. “Nearly six thousand years have I lived, and it must be the first time I hear of  _ Dwarven kindness _ ,” he spat those last words as though they tasted bitter, foul on his tongue. “Very well then, if this truly is the matter, then I would also like to ask for something. The return of the jewels King Thrór had appropriated for himself, never to return, before the dragon attacked. Now that we want to speak of peace, I reckon mending the past injustices would be the right first step towards it.” 

Hearing that, Gandalf closed his eyes and rubbed his exhausted face, sensing a gathering of dark clouds forming in the already thick air, the tension sizzling and crackling like a threat of a thunderstorm. He had been perfectly aware that the topic of the, stolen indeed, Elven stones would surface at some point during the Council, but he had so foolishly hoped any progress could had been made before that, a single thread of understanding woven. Too late to ameliorate the upcoming catastrophe, Lord Dáin raised up to his feet, great hands curled into fists at his sides. “Are ye callin’ King Thrór a thief?” 

Not bothering to do as much as to pretend to look at the Dwarf, Thranduil replied calmly: “I do believe this is the term one would use to describe a person who took a possession of another as their own, yes.” 

“Gentlemen!” Bard left his seat as well, spare in his case it made a significant difference, raising his voice. “It is not the time pick at old hurts! There are people out there,  _ our  _ people, wounded after the Battle and in dire need of help! Days are growing cold and dark, we do not know if there aren’t more enemies coming to charge at the Mountain, and if we do not find the means of working together, it will bring more losses not only to the Men, but to the Elves, and to the Dwarves as well.” He exhaled a tired sigh, sinking back into his seat, fingers pressing at his temples. “It is not a secret that we need you more than you could possibly need us, but it would be a petty and  _ ludicrous _ thing of you to think that grabbing at each other’s throats would bring more benefit to all than coming together.” He raised his eyes up at Dáin. “And that is not to remind that were it not for me--not even Men, but me specifically--your King would never reach the Mountain. The  _ least  _ I deserve is what was promised to me in exchange for help.” 

Stunned silence fell upon the council. Dáin stared at Bard with a shade of disbelief, Gandalf leaned back in his chair with relief and a degree of satisfaction to see the Elvenking and the Dwarf Lord being so promptly shut off, and even Thranduil turned his eyes towards the distressed Bowman a little. It did not happen often that someone would so bluntly and so candidly point out the utter uselessness of the inherent mistrust and distaste for other races they all shared. To look past this and criticize what was always silently tiptoed around was an act of great courage, and despite the grudges held, they all had to admit it. 

Dáin could be heard clearing his throat as he took his place by the table again. “Even if I were to allow ye, Men, to stay in the Front Hall,” he began, “and even if I were to begin arrangin’ the rebuildin’ to Dale--even if I were do all of this, I can’t pay ye out. Nor can I return the jewels.” He furrowed his brows again. “Ye must understand, I am not the King. Might be his kin, aye, but I’m him.. Whatever treasure is still left inside Erebor, it doesn’t belong to me, and it’s not mine to give. As long as my cousin draws breath, it’s his decision to make.”

“How likely is he draw breath for much longer?” Thranduil asked, causing the Dwarf Lord’s head to violently snap in his direction. “And shall I remind you that, were it not for me, one of his heirs would not be drawing breath as we speak at all?” 

Seeing another crash waiting to happen, Gandalf cut into the midst of the conversation, gesturing his goblet around. “Lord Thranduil, with all due respect, but I must agree with Lord Dáin on this.” He coughed then, successfully bringing everyone’s attention to himself. “He is already willing to work together with the Men,  _ and the Elves _ , but he is correct--he is not the King. Even as a representative here, with Thorin being very much alive, his loyalty will not let him act on his own, which should be respected.” The old Wizard nodded. “I propose that, for the time being, and as a token of good intentions and faith in this alliance, for the Arkenstone to be given to Lord Thranduil until Thorin feels well enough to agree on, both, paying out the Men their promised gold, and giving out the Elven stones.” 

Bard was first to react to this suggestion, something in the shape of hope awakening in his face. “I support this suggestion,” he stated. “It might have failed once, but I understand that this… gem is precious enough to be strong of a motivation to keep to his word now. I have been informed that Thorin’s dragon-greed had gone away since, is that correct?”

“It had, indeed,” Gandalf agreed. “I had members of the original Company, as well as their medic Óin, confirm to me that once the Battle began, the sickness appeared to vanish entirely. Thorin is a good Dwarf,” he insisted. “Whomever you spoke to regarding the paying out of gold was not him, but a phantom of his predecessors and I am giving you  _ my word _ that there will be no issues with getting your share of gold, as well as for you to retrieving your jewels, Lord Thranduil, once Thorin awakes. But I still suggest for you to keep the Arkenstone as a symbol. I think that Lord Dáin here will agree with me on the matter.”

It had been quite some time since Gandalf had last seen a Dwarf this displeased, but as chaotic and hot-headed as Dáin was, he was also wise and took the wellness of his people and his family to heart, able to put it over his own short temper. He could not call for the claims to the Arkenstone as it had already been stolen away--it was only logical to keep it from the Mountain in a fashion similar to keeping the Elven jewels  _ inside _ , but with a promise of a swift exchange once the conditions of their deal had been met. It was a fair trade.

Against the odds and grieve probability of the gathering to end in a row that would further presage the doom of the three races, common grounds and means of communications had been found after all. It had been agreed on as they had spoke of--Men of Esgaroth were to be allowed to stay in the camp that sprouted behind the broken Eastern Gate and it was to be further discussed as to how preparations of revival of Dale were to be arranged. Moreover, it was also agreed that the Mirkwood Elves would provide the necessary produce to feed the Men as well as Dwarves already in Erebor, and those who were to arrive there in the foreseeable future. After all, the vast majority of Durin's Folk Dwarves had been dwelling in Ered Luin in the far West, waiting for the day that would mark the reclamation of their home; allowing them to safely return, and now that the said day had come, they had to be notified. The name of Thorin’s sister--Lady Dís--was mentioned, but Dáin made it rather clear that he would rather have more information about Thorin’s recovery before ravens were to be sent.

As the conversations progressed and the fragile alliance seemed to settle in, with no further need for his guidance, Gandalf was to take his leave, scarf wrapped around his neck and staff in his hand, but before he even reached the flaps of the tent, Thranduil appeared next to him with the silent swiftness typical to Elves. “Had you discovered something,  _ Mithrandir _ ?” he asked, his tone calculated, cold, and quiet enough so that not even his own guards would be able to hear. “Or is it but a hope that it is not the Dwarves themselves, but the stone causing the sick greed for gold?” 

Gandalf did not turn to face the Elvenking, but he stilled, breathing hitching in his chest ever so slightly. He had wished he were more subtle about this, that he had made his proposition in a way that no underlying intentions could be sensed, but one had to thread extremely lightly around a being as old and as wise as an Elf. Putting his hat back on his head, the old Wizard replied calmly and just as lowly: “Believe me, my lord Thranduil, when I say that I do truly believe that what I offered was the best, if not the only solution to the situation. That, and that I do trust that the Arkenstone will be the safest in your hands, let alone make for a splendid guarantee that you will receive back the jewels your wife had left you.” 

Not as much his expression nor his frame as the air itself changed around Thranduil at the mention of the love he lost. It appeared to glimmer almost, as if the thought of her alone was too distressing for him to keep the flawless mask from revealing the burnt and the rotten underneath. “I do not know what it is you believe,  _ Mithrandir _ ,” he spoke slowly, emphasizing every word, his blind eyes wandering around the wrinkles of Gandalf’s face, “but I fear that a Halfling will not be enough to fix whatever illness lies on the line of Durin.”

The Wizard did not reply, but nodded his head, made a soft sound announcing the end of the conversation before he stepped out of the heat of the tent into the harsh cold light of the day. The sun was still high, and there were many things needing tending to.

Many things indeed, and they had been persistently becoming increasingly burdensome on Óin’s back, causing his posture to sag as if he was beginning to shrivel in on himself, the tension in his temples to grow into a splitting headache, and his temper to grow shorter than it already had been before. If asked, he wouldn’t be able to tell exactly when, in the midst of the chaos the aftermath of the Battle had caused, he had become one of the main persons on interest, someone the eyes of everyone lied heavily upon whenever he had to leave the suffocating hotness of the royal tent. Likely, it must had been somewhere between being a member of the original Company, and one of the very few--if not only--Dwarves with any kind of medical experience currently in Erebor, thereby giving Óin a direct access to the Sons of Durin and knowledge of the state of their health. Being the carrier of such desperately seek out, but such confidential information burned a mark upon him, rendering him hypervisible to everyone--a drastic change from usually being skimmed over. It did not, by any means, make his attempts at getting from one point to another unnoticed any easier. Thankfully, with this newly found position came a great authority, which combined with his extremely unwelcoming way of carrying himself successfully kept everyone away from bothering him when he did not want to be bothered, or when there were things he so hastily needed to discuss with someone he could trust. 

To describe what he was feeling as worry would be quite a sizeable understatement, one that would not even begin to cover the fear scratching more and more at the back of the old Dwarf’s head. What he had seen bothered him a deal far greater than it would under any other circumstances, but in the light of what had happened a mere day ago, every little thing was crucial to take a note of. Seeing something like  _ that _ … well, it was only logical for Óin to decide to seek Balin out, and have his suspicions either confirmed or, hopefully, denied. With that thought in his mind, as well as stress gnawing at his every fiber, Óin marched out of the royal tent and turned his steps towards the smaller tents growing beyond, for once glad that these hadn’t been raised up anywhere further. He was already more than spent and agitated, he did not need even more eyes and ears being pointed at him. 

Not bothering with trying to keep quiet, he entered the tent he had specifically requested to be for the Company’s needs only. It wasn't big, with just enough to have two makeshift cots pushed inside with some space to move around in between them, but this was the most privacy that could be arranged in their conditions. Both of the bunks were occupied--on one of which the youngest of the Dwarves, Ori, was still sleeping peacefully, put under the influence of herbs after he had begun bawling so violently he was barely able to take a breath. He appeared to be entirely unconscious still, but Óin took a moment to make absolutely certain of it, poking the lad a little and jabbing a finger in between his ribs. Pleased to see that there was no other reaction than a grunt, the old Dwarven medic then turned to the other bed, much more determined to bring its resident back to his senses. 

“Balin,” Óin said, grabbing at his friend’s shoulder and shaking him vigorously. “Balin, get up. We got somethin’ to talk about. You slept enough.” 

Knowing just how much herbs Balin was given the day before, he could easily estimate how much they had to had worn off by now, and how easy it would be to wake him up. It took a couple of more indelicate jolts and a raised voice, but Óin saw it brought the desired effect as soon as Balin mumbled something almost coherent, making a vague gesture with his hand while his eyes were still closed. He was handed a goatskin without as much as a word, spared any commentary regarding his swollen face and completely ruffled up hair with almost mercy in it. It was not everyday that someone--even someone as sturdy and resilient as a Dwarf--was put under such an unimaginable distress only to be rendered senseless not long after. And Balin? Balin was very old, and with everything he had seen and done, he deserved at least a moment to gather himself back.

When he finally spoke, his voice was croaking, grogginess clinging to him still. “Are they alright?” 

Óin let out another grunt, pretending not to hear the question he had just been asked, and instead reached behind his belt again, this time to retrieve his hearing trumpet. His ears had been progressively and exponentially getting worse over the past years, that was true, but just how much hearing he had left and how much he could understand from the conversations around him was something he had kept to himself. Glóin could, with more or less accuracy, determine which things his brother truly didn’t hear, and which one of them he  _ chose _ not to hear, but the fact remained that it was a rather comfortable way of not acknowledging things or answering the questions he simply did not want to.

“We need to talk,” he stated simply, pressing the trumpet against his ear, letting himself down at the very edge of the cot next to his friend’s feet. “Thorin woke.” 

The change in Balin’s face was immediate, his eye shining up, the drugged torpor disappearing within a heartbeat. Hope it was, lightning up, helping him sit up and causing his fingers to clench so tightly around the goatskin’s neck that his knuckles turned white. “He did? Why, is he doing fine? Did he speak with you?” He was such a fierce warrior and such a wise advisor, it was difficult to believe that he could look so fragile, like one wrong word could shatter him entirely.

“No,” Óin responded truthfully. “Didn’t want to. It was like he didn’t even see me.” His eyes skimmed over to the other bunk, fixing on Ori sleeping soundly under what appeared to be someone else’s coat. One of his brothers likely came in here at some point during the night and tucked him in, made sure he’s warm and safe like siblings ought to do. “He only wanted to talk to Bilbo. Feverish, he was. Half-delirious. Barely able to speak Westron.” When he looked back at Balin, he made a point to make his voice as stern as his exhaustion would allow, emphasis put on every syllable, making himself crystal clear. “Gave Bilbo his bead.” 

Neither one of them spoke for what had felt like time’s another cruel trick of putting a halt to the whole world around them, understanding sluggishly surfacing on their expressions after what could very well be a whole century. Balin’s eyebrows scrunched together on his wrinkled forehead, the spark in his eye that mere moments ago was eager to burn up a light of life in him again now dimming and dying down completely, leaving space for something grimer, something darker. He didn’t voice whatever had gathered inside his head, instead just hung his feet off the edge of the cot, putting them firmly on the ground and staring at the tips of his boots. “Do you reckon…?” 

It was asked cautiously, almost fearfully, but he would not let be finished, for Óin shook his head and smacked his lips with dissatisfaction. “I don’t reckon anythin’,” he grunted, but this reply was more than telling. “I’m askin' ye. Did he finally came back to? Or is it what I fear it is?" 

Balin closed his eyes and exhaled an almost anguished breath, pinching the bridge of his nose and leaning forward. “I reckon,” he began slowly, “that we ought not to play with fire again after we have just been so severely burned. That we… we should be extremely,  _ extremely _ careful until we know for sure.” He raised his head and straightened his back a little, but he was looking at Ori, who seemed to be now waking up from his dreamless sleep. "But I reckon this ought not be kept just between the two of us. Let us gather the others. When there is still time."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5\. Mithrandir (Sindarin) — Grey One


	6. CHAPTER V—tangled in cobwebs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> Two weeks have passed so it's time for the next chapter! Hopefully this one will help you answer some questions the plot might have caused you to have so far as well as spike your interest as to what is going to be happening next--seeing how now the foundations are all built. As always I encourage you to follow me on Twitter @alekstraodinar--I don't bite and I'm pretty keen on interacting with everyone.
> 
> I hope you'll enjoy!

Darkness had an odd quality to it, altering the reality to its own distorted reflection, changing the image of everything around, and rarely in order to bring comfort. As the sun would slowly close to the end of its daily journey through the dome high above, the creeping shadows would elongate, all the noise and chatter would shift into quiet and stillness, and all the woes and sorrows would grow deeper and bleaker. Even for those who spent the majority of their lives buried deep inside mountains hiding away from the rays of sunshine, the lack of light and the lack of day were not the same, and the difference between them was truly tangible. Often, it was as though there were two worlds stead of one, their bleeding into each other dictated by the continuous cycle of dusks and dawns. Where the shine of day often brought bits and pieces of hope, no matter how broken they could be, and pushed life forward like there would always be a tomorrow, the night pulled it violently into a standstill, forced everything to die down and submerge in its thick and inescapable gloom. Whatever matter there was, whatever object or place, not even a person would be the same basked in moonlight as they would be in the sunshine.

Much like time, the end of day too had a habit of meddling with the perception of the surrounding world, but its power was even greater than that, its impact incomparable especially on those already bearing wounds of flesh and mind. The cover of the night had the unique gift of emphasizing and underlining everything it could reach, bringing attention away from whatever memory of a shine could still be seen over the horizon and focusing it on the cuts and the bruises. There was something about this kind of darkness, one so natural yet forever remaining strange and alien, something intimidating. Nearly like a void, surrounding and tackling, seeping into the deepest corners of minds and hearts and tugging at the most closely and desperately held secrets. As much as children feared whatever might await them in the dark, as they would go through their lives, they would come to realize that the biggest threat the darkness poses is not what it might hold, but what it might bring out.

So as the sunrays slithered up and behind the hills surrounding the valley before the Mountain, and the first pale stars burned up on the dimming sky, the hum of the slowly rebuilding life that picked up its pace at dawn now began to quiet down, turning into an almost deafening silence akin to the one still tightly wrapped over the battlefield. The experiences of the battle continued to cling tightly to everyone, even to those seasoned in wars, for what had played at Erebor’s foothills was a fight exceptional, one that would burn its mark on the pages of the history and anyone unfortunate to witness or participate in it. Thankfully, in the midst of loss, exhaustion and uneasiness, something seemed to began moving forward at twilight. It was then when Bard the Bowman arrived into the camp, bearing news that a preliminary agreement between him, Lord Thranduil, and Lord Dáin had been settled; announcing that the Men of Esgaroth needed not longer worry about surviving the winter, that there would be provided for and that soon conversations regarding the rebuilding of Dale would be held. He also then also informed the Elves that Lord Thranduil would send one of his soldiers with further orders before nightfall, but they were likely all to return to Mirkwood the following day. That left everyone in a state of mind far lighter and more hopeful than they had been for a long time, like the suffocating thickness surrounding them finally began to thin out.

Everyone, except Dwarves.

There were only five people currently aware of however big or small the chances of survival were for Sons of Durin--none of the Elves would bother to answer questions even if any of the Dwarves was willing to swallow down their pride and ask, Óin absolutely refused to acknowledge the almost begging looks he was being given whenever he emerged from the medical tent, and nobody would dare to approach the lone Halfling, seeing how he was either impossible to find or surrounded by the members of the Company who reclaimed Erebor, not one of them willing to let anyone through. Being kept in this unawareness for such a long time, combined with the natural Dwarven temper caused those who cared for the royal family to become restless, sullen, and trying to find something to occupy themselves with even as the night drew. The Iron Hill Dwarves weren’t bothered much, for their first and foremost loyalty lied with Lord Dáin, who was only lightly wounded. However, over half of those who came with aid to Erebor had once dwelled here and called it their home, and much alike to the Dwarves who followed King Thrór East, and now resided in Ered Luin, had been waiting for the day their King would be able to sit on the throne under the Mountain again. Having that hope crushed down by having not only their King, but also their Princes in what seemed to be a critical state was deeply distressing, to say the least. 

Likely very few of them ever had the opportunity to meet Thrór, or Thráin, or even Thorin personally, and ever fewer of them spoke to any of them, yet all of them appeared to experience incredible amounts of anxiety about what each passing hour could bring. If what they were feeling could be described as such, what the Company were going through could only be called anguish. They wouldn’t say this out loud, but from the way they acted it was more than clear that the stress was getting the best of them--bad decisions made, harmful actions taken, wrong words spoken. Still, Bofur believed that it was not an excuse to behave the way some of them did, to behave the way _ he _ did. It only added to his misery immensely, and as he sat on a bag of grain in the camp’s kitchen, carving mindlessly in a piece of firewood he picked up from nearby, he couldn’t help but repeat the conversation he had had with Nori half a day before over and over again in his head. So focused on his task he was that he wouldn’t had even noticed his cousin settling down beside him if it wasn’t for a not-so-gentle jab at his side. 

“Get yer head out the clouds, lad,” Bifur told him, tapping his pipe against his knee impatiently. He must had just gotten back inside from the fields, the sleeves of his tunic still rolled up to his elbows, hands covered in grime. “Asked if ye got any leaves left.” 

Suddenly pulled back into the present, Bofur blinked with confusion, and only by seeing his cousin’s urged gesture he realized what he had just been asked. “Aye,” he replied then briefly, putting the half-finished wooden toy in his lap and reaching into the pocket of his jerkin to retrieve a leather sachet. Handing it over, his mind was already focused back on his work, but only semi so. “Dwalin alright?” he asked, genuinely concerned, but this was not the Dwarf who had been on his mind for the past hours at all. 

Bifur shook his head, stuffing the bowl of his pipe and rising up from where he was situated. “Nah,” he said with blunt honesty, squatting next to the fire burning nearby and grabbing a lit stick from the very edge of it, using it to ignite the leaves. He took a moment to inhale deeply, close his eyes and then let the smoke out slowly, the blue strokes dancing before his face. “He broke. Completely. Then refused to get some of those herbs Óin got from the Elves. Didn’t wanna sleep ‘till he knows Thorin’s alright.” He shrugged, sitting down again. “At least he ate somethin’.” 

A simple humm was the only way in which Bofur acknowledged that he heard the answer, but there wasn’t anything else for him to add to the information received. Knowing Dwalin as well as he did, and having had shared in many perils together, he was aware that it was already quite a great success that the Dwarven warrior decided to have a meal instead of pushing himself to a breaking point. Truthfully, it made Bofur a little embarrassed how little mind he paid to his friend’s well-being, shame burning up in his ears, but whenever he tried putting his thoughts on anyone else, they escaped in spite his best efforts. With his eyes still firmly fixed on the toy he was carving, he posed another question, forcing his voice to sound indifferent: “You seen Nori around?” 

With unexpectedly visible annoyance, Bifur faced him fully, pipe hanging from between his teeth. “Nah,” he said, but it came out more like a displeased grunt, quickly followed by a sigh full or resignation. He rubbed at his face with weariness, fingers sliding up over the dent in his forehead where a mere day ago an orc axe was still embedded. It hadn’t been a long time, but it was already quite obvious that losing it not only regained his ability to speak Westron and use Khuzdul coherently, it also took the edge off of him, rendering him far tamer than he had been before. “Look, lad,” he began again, one of his hands twitching in his lap out of habitual need to support himself with Iglishmêk. “I get it. Really do. But this… this’s been goin’ on long enough, and it ain’t leadin’ anywhere. Maybe it’s time you let go, aye?” 

Bofur’s head turned towards his cousin so violently there was an dry crack in his neck, his face twisting in an uncharacteristically furious way. “What’d you know about that, huh?” he growled, fingers clenching at the handle of his knife tighter. “Not like it’s any of your business, anyway. I’m not a pebble, or a tween. I’m hundred and sixty-three I can make decisions for my own, aye? Just don’t go stickin’ your advice were it’s not needed."

With his eyebrows raising up on his scarred forehead, Bifur uttered: "What'd I know? I been married nearly as long as yer alive, lad!", but if there was anything else he wanted to say or add, whether it were for the better or for worse, the sound of someone clearing his throat broke his intentions off. 

He and Bofur both looked up, only to see Ori standing awkwardly near them, wringing his hands out, dressed in a coat that, given its size, must had belonged to one of his brothers. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” he spoke shyly. “But Master Balin and Master Óin asked me to call for you. There is some matter he wanted to discuss with you, with all of us. He said it was very important…”

“Aye,” Bifur voiced right away, gathering himself back to his feet, more than clearly unwilling to return to the conversation he was trying to have with Bofur. “Come on,” he made a nod at his cousin, and followed it with landing a pat on Ori’s back with a strength that made the young Dwarf’s knees buck. “Show us the way.” 

And so he did, leading them across the growing chill of the Entrance Halls’ vastness, out of the kitchen set right by the camp raised up for the Men and Dwarves, then down in the direction of where the royal tent was standing, a beige stain illuminated from the inside, catching everyone’s eye with its sharp contrast against the cold and dark walls around. Ori didn’t stop there, but moved right past it, taking Bifur and Bofur to one of the smaller tents further behind. As they entered the cramped space, they’d realized that all of the remaining Company was already there, waiting for them. Dwalin was situated on one of the cots with Glóin and Dori at his sides, Nori at the edge of it, while the opposing bunk was occupied only by Bombur, leaving enough space for the newcomers. Balin and Óin were standing at the very back of the tent hand in hand, and the expressions they wore on their faces spoke of great worry, certainly not predicting anything comforting to be announced. Immediately, Bofur was caught in a crossfire of terrible emotions flashing through him--the heartbreak at Nori not even sparing a glace in his direction, and the freezing fear that they were gathered here to receive the worst information.

Only when Bifur pulled him down to the free space of one of the cots Balin cleared his throat loudly, getting everyone’s undivided attention in an instant. He was the oldest of them all, and it was something commonly known as well as clearly visible, but, somehow, in that moment Balin looked older than he ever had before. "We're all here, aren't we?" he asked, but didn't actually wait for or wanted an answer. There was so little space in there that it was rather easy to see that they were, in fact, all there. All, spare for Sons of Durin, and their bulgral. “Well, then. Óin brought news, and I do believe you are all entitled to know what is the matter. There is good news, but there is also bad news.” 

The Dwarves twitched nervously in their spots, unrest thickening in the still air around them. They all exchanged looks, estimating which would be the one brave enough to ask Balin to continue. Dori was, in the end, sitting with his shoulder pressed against his brother’s. “Why don’t we start with the good news?” he posed a reasonable question, but his hands were tugging nervously at a loose thread of his jerkin. “I think all of us could use some of those, aye?”

A murmur of agreement arose, but it was far from a relieved or hopeful one, for from the way both Balin and Óin carried themselves it was not difficult to guess that whatever was hidden under this name, it wouldn’t bring them nearly as much solace as they would wish for. “Mhm.” Balin sighed, fingers raising up to stroke over his white beard. “The good news is that Thorin awoke.” It caused another little uproar among the Company, relieved smiles spreading across tired faces. It was Dwalin who exhibited the biggest change in behaviour, his back somewhat straightening, something in his eye sparking up, and some weight slipping off his shoulders. Their happiness, however, didn’t last long as Balin put his hand up in the air and continued as if he were never interrupted. “His fever is still burning hot, and it might very well ravage him thoroughly, but waking is a good sign.” He nodded at Óin there, as to confirm his words. “And it’s a good fortune for Kíli. Given their state, if Thorin woke briefly, Kíli should soon too. Fíli…” his words trailed off, unimaginable pain seeping into them as his jaw clenched, undoubtedly the memories of Raven Hill coming back to him. “For Fíli we must pray.”

“Doesn’t sound like very good news to me,” Glóin boomed bluntly, arms crossed over his wide chest. “Ye know them even better than I do. Ye should know that if one of them goes, the rest will follow.” 

Balin exhaled sharply to that, eyebrows scrunching. “I know that well, aye,” he confirmed, but not without defensiveness. “But I’d rather hope Thorin and Kíli will pull Fíli out, stead of him pull them all back.” He pinched at the bridge of his scared nose, furrows of his face deepening significantly. Silence spread over little tent like a viel once again, this time constricting them even tighter. 

At long last, a shy voice spoke up, and despite of it being quiet and careful, in rang loud in the stillness surrounding them. “What… about the bad news?” Ori asked, looking nervously at those sitting around him. The youngest one of them all he was, and the most naive, the most foolishly hopeful in the face of the grieve image of the future being painted in front of them. “Do we even want to know?” It caused two or three of them to snicker briefly at the weighty and how grim ridiculousness of this, of all of this. It was but a way of shaking off the briefest of shreds of stress, a desperate attempt of alleviating a small bit of the dismay plaguing them like a disease.

Óin stepped forward, his short-temper making itself visible with the unwillingness to stall the matter even more. “The bad news is,” he said, his hearing trumped pressed firmly against one of his ears, “that Thorin only wanted to see Bilbo. Only wanted to to talk to Bilbo. Gave his bead to Bilbo. Rings any bells?” Stern look of his black eyes swiped across the faces gathered in front of him, none of them daring to do as much as even twitch a muscle or draw a breath, realization spreading quick. The reactions were mixed--Dori and Bombur both drew a sharp breath, Nori’s and Bofur’s eyes grew wide, Glóin’s and Dwalin’s faces dark. More looks were exchanged, looking for answers the others would not offer. 

It was Bombur who finally risked asking, his face turning red from tension: “Ye mean…?”

“Aye,” Balin responded, gathering himself back together. Not even old he looked anymore, but exhausted and equally hopeless and helpless, as though what they were to face now was wearing on him more than the perspective of death. It was not to blame him, for there were things in this world worse than death, and it seemed to be a joke of especial cruelty to throw so many of those instances at them, at_ him _. It was never spoken of as nobody would dare to be this bold, but as it was known that as old and wise he was, it was also known that during his many years of service by the Sons of Durin’s side, and especially after King Thráin mysterious disappearance, Balin became less of an advisor to Thorin, and more of a father, akin to Thorin treating Fíli and Kíli as his own sons. For him, it was not the matter of the King he pledged his loyalty to, clinging to life by what seemed to be a thread of sickness, but rather as if it was happening to his own child. “I fear this means that his dragon-sickness hasn’t been extinguished fully.”

Some of them scoffed, some of them made a sound of terror, some of them remained silent. Only Bifur found the words everyone was looking for: “How?” he wanted to know. “How’d ye know? The sickness was perished. I saw it, ye all saw it. He came back to!” 

Once again, Óin relieved Balin of the duty of carrying on: “How do I know?” he echoed, almost with offense to it, unable to believe someone would question his judgement. “What happened when gold took over him, aye? Cut himself off from us. Isolated completely, even from his heirs. Only person he talked to was Bilbo. Got possessive. Gave him that shirt.” He shook his head. “Treated him like a part of his hoard, like _ his treasure _. Now he wakes up, and first thing he does is act on it again.” 

Bofur finally cut into the conversation, a disbelieving smile spread across his face. “This is ridiculous,” he said. “Ye hear yourself? Ye tryin’ to tell us that Bilbo makes Thorin sick? Why? Just ‘cause he…”

“No,” Dwalin spoke up for the first time since this gathering had begun, and likely since Bifur, Dori and Glóin forcefully dragged him off the battlefield, stopped from working himself to premature death. “He’s sayin’ that he thinks that Bilbo… that Bilbo is the last strand connectin’ Thorin to his dragon-sickness. That back before the battle, with the shirt, it wasn’t pure intention. That it was just the greed again, Thorin makin’ sure Bilbo would be _ his _. And that now we can’t know this for sure, but can’t risk it either.” 

To that, both Balin and Óin nodded their grey heads, confirming what had just been said with a short “aye”. Glóin was to speak next as he played with a pipe between his fingers: “Say ye both are right,” he began, from the start letting everyone know that he wasn’t entirely convinced, or perhaps that he’d rather believe otherwise. “Say it’s the way ye say. What ye reckon we ought to do about this?”

Pressing his lips together, Balin rubbed at his temple, making an impression as though what he was about to say tasted bitter in his mouth. “We ought to keep Bilbo and Thorin separate. At least when Thorin awakes again, not to raise suspicion,” he announced. "With what Óin and I have told you, you must see that this is the only way for us to wait and see whether the sickness has been purged completely, or not. We cannot take any chances here." He drew a breath, as distraught as the rest of them felt. "And we cannot let Bilbo know." 

"Oi," Bofur opposed yet again, this time standing up, looking across the faces of his friends, searching for but one to support him in his stance, but finding none. "This is wrong, Balin. Ye must know this, aye? All of ye?” He turned around, but not a single word was spared, each and every one of them sitting with grim faces and lowered shoulders. “We can’t do this to him, lads! He saved our lives, ten times over! He deserves to know the truth, we owe him!”

Balin stepped forward, taking on the paternal frame he had so often taken around Thorin, trying to ease the situation down, smooth out the misunderstanding he thought had emerged here, but missing the point Bofur was so desperate to make. “Laddie,” his voice turned soft. “You’re right. He saved our lives more times than I care to count, and we owe him. Aye. But what we owe him is to save his life back, which might very well be the case if what Óin and I believe is true. We can’t put any more weight on him, laddie. He’s already been through more than any Hobbit I’d ever heard of was. We need to keep him safe, to-”

Shaking his head so vigorously the ears of his hat flapped, Bofur cut him. “No,” he uttered firmly, and although he believed it to be impossible before arriving in this tent, his heart was even more broken now, and the shards of it were digging themselves deep into his chest. “No, it’s… _ no _.” And with this being all he had to say about the matter at hand, Bofur turned around and rushed out as if he were being chased. He could not bear the perspective of it, tangling himself in a web of secrets, keeping something of such importance away from a dear friend he loved and cherished so greatly, keeping him in the dark while he was already drowning in grief and dismay. It didn’t seem right to Bofur, not at all, and even if he were willing to further listen to the arguments being posed and convincing being made, that wouldn’t had changed his mind in the slightest. During their journey from Ered Luin to Erebor, through the perils and the joys shared together, he so fiercely longed to believe that in spite of not being born in the Mountain, and being but an outsider among a party of Durin’s Folk Dwarves, they had grown to be a family after all. Now, having had put himself in a position differentiating him from the rest in such a great extent, to a point where his own brother and cousin wouldn’t dare to support him, Bofur felt more lonely than he had ever before.

Were he not holding still to whatever pride he had left after leaving himself exposed, he would had broken down to tears, no longer able to withstand the weight of everything taking place around him. How foolish it was of him to believe that venturing out of the safety of Blue Mountains would be like in the tales sang by bards to Dwarven children’s delight, that it wouldn’t leave him damaged and with pieces missing. A dream of fortune tricked him, and now he was paying the price for it severely, giving out the parts of himself he never knew he had until he felt the lack of them, leaving him hollow and hurting all over. Once mundane and growing unbearable, how now he missed the sound of pickaxes singing against the mine shafts and a day filled with worth, the taste of thin stew and salted pork for the midday meal, and the long evenings spent tinkering, craving and painting toys on Bifur’s side, with Bombur’s humming melting into the background. 

“Bofur!” 

He kept going forward until someone’s hand landed firmly on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks and turning him back around. Nori’s hair was pulled back into its usual extravagant hairstyle, although it was clearly made so in a haste, a third of his hair slipping down and framing his freckled face. He wore an inscrutable expression on his face, yet still his features were tensed and he stood in such a way as if he were to run off at any moment not to participate in the conversation he initiated to begin with. “What?” Bofur snapped at him, shrugging the hand off. “What d’ye want, huh? You ain’t goin’ to change my mind on this! I can’t believe you’re even in favour! Bilbo is our friend, he-!” 

Nori waved his hand, surprisingly shutting Bofur off quite successfully. “Aye,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest and standing his ground firmly. “He’s our friend and it’s ours to protect him. But ye don’t need to act like a tween, either. Half of us thinks like ye, and ye’d know about it if ye didn’t just run off.” He wasn’t looking at Bofur at all, his eyes trailing off somewhere to the side, not quite watching anything or anyone, but distracting themselves from the exchange happening, as if looking at Bofur was too much to bear. “Don’t tell him. Don’t tell Bilbo. Ye know it’s for the best.”

Upon hearing that, Bofur scoffed, smacking his lips with distaste. “What do ye want from me, Nori, huh? Ye know ye can’t change my mind. Just want to upset me, then?” If he were being honest with himself, Bofur desperately wanted to believe that Nori had forgiven him for the words he spoke at midday, the words he never should had spoken and the words he now immensely regretted. But even if it were to be the case, he knew his companion well enough to be certain he wouldn’t had said a word of it, nor admitted amends being made out loud. Noir was good with words, but more often than not, it seemed that he only knew how to use well those that could ridicule, and mock, make a snarky remark, but never those that could speak of a feeling or express vulnerability. It was a trait commonly shared between the Dwarves, but especially well-rooted in this one. 

“Nah,” Nori shook his head, but his knuckles turned white from how much pressure he was putting on his crossed arms. “Just tryin’ to put things in perspective for ye. If Balin is right, we can’t have Bilbo around Thorin. Would be cruel” He scoffed. “And it’s goin’ to be better for him, too. I mean, think about it, why don’t ye? What would hurt ye more? Havin’ someone ye think might be your One break apart from you in an instance, or have ‘em drift away from you slowly, huh?” 

With utter confusion painted all over him, Bofur looked at Nori as if the Dwarf had gotten mad completely and was now blabbering pointless nonsense. “What I’d prefer?” he asked, then still baffled, added: “I’d rather have ye do neither one of those, thank ye very much.” 

It had taken them a long moment for the realization to hit in, for the full weight of the words that just moved past Bofur’s lips to settle in fully, for the both of them to fully process and understand the meaning. It was a confession it was neither the time nor the place for, and one that probably would had never happened no matter the circumstances if it weren’t for Bofur’s blasted trait of never being able to keep his mouth shut. Nori stared at him, in silence, something coloured like fear appearing in his hazel eyes and creeping down to his whole body, his inherit instinct to flee in the face of inconvenience triggered. He shifted uncomfortably, make an incoherent sound and then just walked away, like the conversation was done and over, nothing else left to say. Bofur made no attempt at stopping him, of trying to explain himself or turning it all into a tasteless joke. It was a helpless situation, as was everything all around. Dreaming of rivers of gold and mountains of diamonds, all it brought him was resignation and a heartbreak, all of it after being fed the smallest shred of hope that maybe everything was going to be fine after all. Oh, what a cruel nature of the world it was, to so violently kill the fragile hope that had only been born.


	7. CHAPTER VI—friend or foe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! 
> 
> It's the time for the next instalment of this story! Sadly this time I have to inform you that the next chapter will be up between 3 to 4 weeks from now because I'll be leaving home at the end of December/beginning of January and I really need a break from writing because it's been becoming more of a chore and less of fun for me lately :( I hope you'll understand!
> 
> As always--enjoy!

In all of the languages spoken across the lands of Middle-Earth, there was a saying of old ringing out in the times of the greatest despair and deepest need. It varied from a race to a race, from a dialect to a dialect, it changed over the years of being used, but as persistent as the garnish of the sun, or the deep cold depths of the sea, it carried on for generations, showing itself to hold true without unnecessary explanation. The sheer fact of it staying in people’s consciousness through the Ages only proved that, indeed,  _ where there was life, there was hope _ . The maxim might had not mean much to those leading peaceful lives, never to know the smothering weight of seeing your friend, family and troops falling under the enemy’s attack, or the excruciating stagnation of waiting for sickness to leave your loved one, or the stillness and the quiet that always arrived until a great battle. It was under such difficult circumstances, when the world seemed dark and unforgiving was when life could show the full range of its power, and prove that it would not give away to time and to darkness in the terms of its ability to persevere.

Only when it seemed to be holding by fragile strands, threatening to snap at any given moment but never quite doing that, was when one could truly see that, between the two, it was not death that held superiority or the means to triumph in the very end. For as destructive and ravenous as death was, trying to devour everything it could get within its icy reach, whether it was to be violent like a crashing thunder or slow like potion, life was always patient, smoldering like embers even in the heaviest of storm, and waiting for the right occasion to burn up again and light a fire that would not be easily put down. Even from burnt ground, violated, soaked in blood and covered in ashes that often was nothing more than a wasteland, there could grow a blade of grass. It was but a symbol, a narrow passage, but more often than not, it was this first step--no matter how big or small--that mattered, proved steadfastness that was enough to push the circle of life back into its usual pace, slowly but surely returning the world and its harmony around to the way it was before death so fruitlessly tried to disturb it by taking its toll. 

Having had spent all of his life in the quietude of the Shire, and only ever experiencing the persistence of life by watching the world awake again after every winter, Bilbo was a great deal surprised at how quickly everyone around him seemed to be able to pick up the broken pieces the Battle left them with and carry on forward. Although, he had to admit it to himself, accompanying a party of Dwarves on their adventures for months on end had only proven their kind to be extremely tough and resilient, able to handle much more than even their sturdy postures could lead one to believe. Seeing how they always seemed to be able to bounce back from whatever adversity left them shattered, as easily and naturally as if they were created knowing they would continuously put themselves in the harm’s ways, it should had been expected that even a fight so cruel, they would, at least partially, back to their old selves, in spite of all the worries lingering on them. Still, being able to withstand far less severe circumstances, and never having been put through such distress before, had left Bilbo feeling fragile and utterly alone.

It was not to say that he  _ was  _ actually left alone, with nobody to keep an eye on him, or offer a hand when it was needed. No, Bilbo simply felt as though his companions were moving too fast for him to keep the pace, just like it was on the very first day of their journey, all of them knowing how to move, act, and behave on the road while the Hobbit struggled to follow. It seemed to be exactly the same case now, as the second day after the Battle arose over the high peak of Erebor, bringing even colder gusts of air and faint flakes of snow. The Company couldn’t afford to stay idle while there were so many things around the ruined Mountain to do, so many things to tend to, so many matters to look to. Even in the first hours after the fighting had died down, they were denied the time for a proper rest, but it didn’t seem to impact them all too heavily. Although the exhaustion and the heartbreaking worry was still looming over them like yet another foe, waiting for an opportunity to smite them down to the ground, if one didn’t know where to look, nobody would assume that something was wrong. Bombur still hummed as he moved around the makeshift kitchen, Glóin tapped a rhythm with his heavy boots as he busied himself with sharpening their weapons, and even Ori scribbled away in his journal.

For Bilbo, it was not so easy to keep his composure. He was infinitely glad to see his friends, his  _ family _ , to be taking the situation so well, however for a Hobbit like him it was vastly more challenging. As hours passed, each one giving the Sons of Durin better chances of survival, Bilbo’s knees kept on shaking, his fingers running away to skim over the cool metal in his pocket, eyes flickering in the direction of beige tents in the distance. Though difficult, his inherit politeness wouldn’t allow him to put the burden of his rather poor well-being on his Dwarves, so instead of doing anything that could potentially worry them, Bilbo threw himself into work, helping wherever a pair of hands was needed. He was nowhere strong enough to carry the dead, nor did he have the medical training necessary to tend to the wounded, but even with that crossed off the list of his potential duties, there were still many things where he could make himself useful, and through the afternoon and evening, all the way to the brink of the second day, Bilbo was adamant on staying busy, and as distracted as he could get himself to become. 

Tired, with his hair ruffled up, and with his far too large coat now abandoned, but with mithril tunic still on was how Gandalf found him on the morning of the second day after the Battle, as the Hobbit tried balancing half a dozen dirty bowls in his small hands. He was so lost in his troubled thoughts that he hadn’t even noticed the Wizard arrive until he nearly walked right into him. 

“Bilbo, my dear fellow,” Gandalf spoke as he looked down at his friend with concern knitting his eyebrows together on his furrowed forehead. “You’ve made it quite a challenge to find you in all this mess. Are you hiding from something? Or perhaps someone?”

With the dishes still unsteady in his grip, Bilbo let out a small scoff he hoped sounded half as nonchalant as he wanted it to be, albeit he was entirely aware that there was hardly a thing he could ever hide from this old Wizard. The little metal thing in the pocket of his tattered trousers felt too heavy for its size, and so cold it was almost burning through the fabric. “Hiding?” the Hobbit just repeated, his voice pitching high, betraying how he truly felt on the inside. “Don’t be ridiculous, Gandalf. What would I be hiding from?” He shifted his weight slightly, uncomfortable. “I’m just… trying to help. Just trying to help around here. Someone has to keep an eye on those Dwarves.” 

Visibly unconvinced, Gandalf rested both of his hands upon his staff, a deep hum at the back of his throat. “There are many things one can run from, both the good, and the bad. Or, maybe, most often from the things that are good, but might appear bad. I should hope you’re quite capable of telling the difference.” There was a hint of a glimmer in his wise blue eyes. “You’re a bright Hobbit, Bilbo. Yes, I do think you wouldn’t be stupid enough to treat your friends as your foe, would you now?”

There was such a heaviness to his gaze it sent chilling shivers down Bilbo’s spine, the overwhelming fear that Gandalf  _ might know _ creeping up his arms and legs. “I…” he stuttered off-guard, risking the wall he had been trying to put around himself since the day prior to being to chip. “Of course not. They’re my friends, and I know that. I just…” he exhaled then, unable to focus. “I, I’m so sorry, could we talk later? I need to get these back to the kitchen. Bombur should be done with cooking soon, I… I have to go.” He did not throw a glance over his shoulder, nor did he waste another second on waiting for an answer. With how little sleep and food he had been getting lately, and with how many eyes there were on him at his every step, watching all of his movements, Bilbo couldn’t afford staying in one place for long, not even to talk to a dear friend. He worried that if he stopped shifting around, the pressure of all the gazes thrown at him and the murmur of harsh whispers arising wherever he went would turn him to dust.

For the first time in his life, Bilbo truly wished he could disappear, or go to sleep and only wake up when all of this was over. Unfortunately, even with as many crooks and crannies there were around Erebor, and despite the help of a magical ring still at the bottom of his pocket, he simply could not afford hiding away and leaving everything and everyone behind. He owed to his Company, he owed to them a lot, and with how utterly useless he left, the least he could do for them was to  _ be _ here for them, should they need a willing ear or a shoulder to rest on. Surely, they weren’t of an overly talkative kind, but it had already been long since Bilbo first learned that, for Dwarves, it meant more to just sit beside them than to try to pointlessly blabber, just to fill the silence. Silence itself could speak volumes, and it was often than words simply weren’t necessary. 

He held that in his mind as he stepped into the makeshift kitchen, carefully placing the stack of dirty bowls on one of the tables. Bombur was whistling some melody as he prepared the next meal nearby, chopping up pieces of meat in a surprisingly efficient fashion. Bofur was working next to him, but his movements were more sluggish, and his shoulders were slumped in an uncharacteristically sullen way--more than they had the day before. There was no doubt in Bilbo’s mind that something must had happened, perhaps a quarrel between Bofur and his cousin, or a difference of opinion between him and another Dwarf, but whatever it was, from his posture alone it was clear that Bofur did not wish to talk to anyone, and Bilbo wanted to respect that. With a bit of shame to it, but he had to admit to himself that he was rather glad that there was no one in sight who seemed particularly chatty on that morning, for Bilbo had neither the strength nor the right mind to carry out conversations. If anything, he just wanted to make himself helpful, albeit all he seemed to be able to in this crowd was to pick up and clean the dishes. 

Bilbo allowed himself exactly one tired sigh as he rubbed a hand over his still grimy face, pinching at the bridge of his nose and brushing some of his hair away from his eyes. It was getting far too long for his liking, and he was definitely in a need of a haircut, but now were not the times to bother himself with such trivial things. Now he had a task--one only task he was actually trusted with, and he’d prefer to believe that it was making a difference, no matter how small one. Just as he was about to grab one of the finely crafted buckets stacked by one of the fireplaces, there was a sudden commotion behind him, whispers arising. As he turned his head to take a look at the source of this change of the atmosphere, he found the source of it in the form of a Dwarf making his way  _ towards him _ . 

It was the first time Bilbo ever had the--questionable still--pleasure of seeing Lord Dáin of Iron Hills from up close. Only vaguely aware of the cultural differences there could be between Dwarves of the same clan, but separated by hundreds of miles and living in entirely different circumstances and surroundings, the first thing he really noticed about Lord Dáin was that he looked  _ wild _ . Not even Dwalin with his fierce eyes, nor Bifur with his short temper radiated such an untamed, rowdy energy. He held his head high the same way Thorin had, confident and bold, certain of the status he held and the respect that came along with it, like someone who wouldn’t settle for an ounce less than what he expected, what he knew he deserved. His hair was fiery red--although his beard was beginning to grey--and quite disorderly, shorter on the top and with numerous beads plaid into his many braids. His eyes shone determined on his scarred face, a fresh cut going over one of his cheeks, the scrunch of his bushy eyebrows causing the patterns tattooed meticulously into his forehead to deform a little. Though the Battle having had ended nearly two days prior, he was still wearing his armour, albeit it was possibly more for the prestige and emphasizing his position rather than an actual fear of being physically harmed. 

All and all, despite knowing that the Dwarves’ unwelcoming looks were often nothing more than a false impression, Bilbo still felt utterly intimidated. Scared, almost. It was an entirely different situation than the of meeting Thorin, for the Hobbit could never quite truly fear someone who stepped into his house, and without any shame in his voice, admitted that he somehow managed to get lost--twice--in  _ Hobbiton _ , a village with only one road going through it. Lord Dáin, on the other hand… well, the first time he appeared on the field before Erebor, he was riding on a huge hog, with a hammer in his hand and a feathery helmet upon his head, commanding hundreds of armour-clad Dwarves ready for a battle. It was a different experience entirely.

The way Lord Dáin, loudly and with as little shame as his cousin seemed to be able to experience, exclaimed “you!” while pointing a finger of his great hand towards Bilbo certainly didn’t help to ease the feeling of impending doom. Now more people than before were looking over their shoulders, though the intrigued whispers came to an abrupt halt. “You’re the Hobbit, ain’t ye?” 

Bilbo blinked as he looked up the Dwarven Lord’s huge frame, light brown eyes staring at him with an uncomfortable amount of insistence. “Well…” he began slowly, his very being cracking dangerously from being held hostage under many expectant gazes, the intensity of them now threefold. He didn’t fail to notice that Bofur and Bombur, too, forsook their tasks to direct their full attention at the odd pair. “I… I don’t believe you’re likely to meet many Hobbits eastside from Bree.” Then, suddenly struck, and shocked, that he had forgotten about the good manners his poor father so persistently tried to inculcate into him, he added hastily: “My Lord.” 

There was a stretch of an uncomfortable silence during which Bilbo feared that he had done something completely unforgivable, and as he was about to open his mouth again to alleviate the tension, Lord Dáin bursted into a hearty laughter, tilting his head back and resting his hands on his broad sides. “Cheeky one, ain’t ye? Aye, that’s what I heard. And ye lot?” he addressed the Dwarves around. “Ain’t ye got somethin’ to do?”

Called out on their eavesdropping so directly, and done so by the person currently in charge of everything, the curious eyes immediately averted, hands busying themselves with work, the murmurs of conversations buzzing up yet again. Bilbo wanted to look over to them, to make sure they truly returned to minding their own matters, but he couldn’t force himself to, just like he couldn’t find an excuse to postpone this encounter, no matter how desperately he wanted to seek one. Simply put, he didn’t quite know what to make out of the Dwarven Lord, nor what his motives were--there was no way in which Bilbo could be certain that Lord Dáin hoped for Thorin’s swift recovery as badly as the Company did, or rather he counted down hours to when he could claim the crown for his own. They were family, yes, but so was Bilbo and Sackville-Bagginses, and there was not a doubt in his mind that Bag End was thoroughly plundered by them by now.

The thought of that made a sinking feeling appear at the pit of Bilbo’s stomach, like the cooling atmosphere and the falling snow somehow found their way inside his body, spreading a storm of their own inside. There were so many things happening for the past days, so many worries and so little time to do as much as to catch a breath, he had almost completely forgotten about his home--the Shire, Hobbiton, his very own Bag End. How long had it been since he last sat in his armchair by the fireplace, wrapped in his cosy robe with a book in his hand? It had been months, perhaps even closing to a full year. So many times throughout their journey had Bilbo wondered--feared--that he could never make it back home, yet now when the quest was over, and his contract fulfilled, he found himself not missing the green hills and the smell of grass at all. Perhaps it was simply due to his head being utterly occupied by worrying for the health of Sons of Durin, as well as being partially in post-battle shock still, but as Bilbo paid more mind to it, he slowly began to realize that he was unable to recall the last time he ever thought about returning to the Shire, let alone called it his home. He wasn’t even entirely sure he felt like he had a home anymore. For now, with everything crumbling at the lightest touch, he felt homeless. 

It was Lord Dáin’s voice that pulled him out of his rapidly darkening spiral of thoughts, both of big ginger eyebrows raised. “Ye alright there, lad?” he asked, his words harsh and rasping at the edges, like he wasn’t very used to speaking Westron. “Not gonna pass out on me, are ye?” 

“What? No!” Bilbo shook his head rapidly, his thoughts snapping back into reality, searching for his manners and usual ways of behaviour. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to untangle it a little bit, but there were some strands still clustered together with blood, reminding him that he needed to wash himself as soon as possible. “Sorry, I… I was just thinking about something. Can I, uh, can I help you?”

Lord Dáin made a vague gesture in response, neither a nod, neither a shake of his head. “Aye and nay, I suppose. I heard quite a bit about’cha, lad, though Dwarrows ain’t a talkative kind.” He winked, as if he just made a splendid joke and, perhaps, if he weren’t still so cautious, Bilbo might had laughed. It was still the truth, however--Dwarves suffered from their terrible,  _ terrible  _ communication skills, and, in a way, it was nice to finally speak with someone who didn’t seem to try avoid getting to the point. “Thought I’d come see the Hobbit my cousin decided to drag ‘round Middle-Earth.” Then his eyes narrowed suddenly, gaze falling away from Bilbo’s face. “Ain’t that mithril?” 

Taken aback by this remark, Bilbo looked down at the hauberk he was wearing with just as much surprise as Lord Dáin had, as though he had forgotten he was still wearing it. Truth be told, it was long since he should had taken it off and deposited it somewhere safe, but despite looking frankly ridiculous, Bilbo simply didn’t want to part with this reminder of Thorin just as badly as he didn’t want to let go of the brass bead resting at the bottom of his pocket along with his magical ring. “This?” he asked, as he took the hem of the tunic between two fingers, its fine rings shining in the winter sun. “I think so, yes. Thorin… Thorin gave it to me, shortly before the Battle began. He said it was a token of our friendship.”

With a small nod, Lord Dáin hummed: “Ah,” some surprise crossing his roughly-cut features briefly. “Did he now? I see, I see. Well, that makes a perfect sense. Definitely sounds like something Thorin would do. Mithril, ye see, is hard to come by these days. A whole piece of armour made of it, that’s… that’s a very kingly gift, indeed.” 

“Ah, well,” Bilbo spoke in a forcibly nonchalant way as he let go of the shirt, but he thumbed at the bulge in his trousers where the little bead was hidden. It was comforting to him, somehow. “I don’t suppose it fits me well, does it? It’s not exactly Hobbit-sized,” he tried to laugh the tension off. “It is pretty, for a hauberk, I suppose. But I think it would have served Thorin far better than it served me, all things considered. Despite what he might have been insisting on, I still think that he should have taken it, and I should have gotten a helmet instead.” To emphasize his words, Bilbo pointed at the side of his head where it was stained with his own blood after suffering a blow to the head that knocked him out. If he did have a helmet back then, who knows, perhaps he would had gotten to Raven Hill before Azog plunged his blade into Thorin’s chest. 

There was a shift in Lord Dáin’s stance as his back straightened, the cheeriness evaporating from him in a heartbeat. “Insisted?” he echoed. “Ye talked to him? When? I wasn’t told he woke up!”

Before Bilbo had the chance to do as much as to open his mouth, over the chatter of Dwarves, he heard his name being called and, surely enough, not a blink later Bofur appeared by his side, wrapping an arm around him in an almost protective manner. “Ah, Bilbo, here ye are, lad!” He gave Bilbo a smile, but it was devoid of its characteristic joyfulness. He looked miserable, if anything. “Been lookin’ for ye all over! Ori wants to talk to ye, seemed like it was important. Terribly sorry,  _ zabadûnê _ (6) , but I’m goin’ to have to kidnap our burglar for now. I’m sure he’ll have plenty of time for ye later, aye?” 

He then snatched the Hobbit away, and dragged him off deeper into the kitchen, leaving Lord Dáin with neither time nor the room to oppose, or comment on this evident disregard. Bilbo himself was too dazed to spare a word, for as much as he knew Bofur to sometimes become clueless and having the unfortunate tendency of speaking and acting before thinking, it was the first time to witness him being downright  _ rude _ . Granted, Dwarves weren’t known for their good manners, and neither was it the impression the Hobbit had gotten through the months spent together, but if there was a line they would never cross, it was not paying proper respect to their leaders. He could only guess that Bofur didn’t consider Dáin to be  _ his  _ Lord--since, to Bilbo’s knowledge, Bofur and his family didn’t belong to the same Dwarven clan as the rest of the Company--but even considering that, it was so entirely out of character that Bilbo began to worry.

Not wanting anyone, and especially not Lord Dáin, to gain any suspicions, he stayed quiet and made his best attempt at acting natural as Bofur lead him further away, towards to where Bombur was still pretending to be focused on preparations of the next meal. Lowering his voice, and not daring to look back, Bilbo finally risked asking, quietly: “Is everything alright?” he wanted to know. “I appreciate the rescue, but… are you alright, Bofur? You seem a little…”

“A little what?” Bofur snorted, something that normally would be very typical for him, if only it wasn’t for the lack of the spark in his dark brown eyes. “You’re the one who seemed like ye’d rather face an army of Orcs than talk to him! Be thankful Ori’s been lookin’ for ye!” He squeezed Bilbo’s shoulder tightly, before finally letting go of him. Bombur sent Bilbo a reassuring smile, but as soon as his eyes slipped to his brother, the cheeriness faded away.

Bilbo nodded slowly, but he watched his friend carefully. “Ah, so I just happen to be lucky?” It was happening to him awfully often lately, and was quickly becoming impossible to believe that there weren’t some forced toying with his fate. “Ori really wanted to see me?” he wanted to know. “How is he, anyway? I haven’t seen him since…” he grimace internally, remembering the fear and heartbreak he felt as Thorin grabbed him by the flaps of his coat and threatened to throw him off the Eastern Gate. The worst thing was, Bilbo would had deserved it. “Since before the Battle. I only heard he wasn’t feeling very well yesterday.”

With his hands still portioning out the vegetables, Bombur replied: “He’s better now. Óin had to give him somethin’ to get him to sleep yesterday, poor lad was in pieces, ye know.” He picked up the makeshift cutting board he was working on and stepped over to one of the great pots standing over improvised fireplaces, throwing the cubes inside. “But he’s a Dwarf, he picked himself up. Wanderin’ around, last I talked to him. It’s his first time in Erebor, ye know. Must be an experience, see his home for the first time in his life, aye? Bet he found somethin’ interestin’ and wants to share with ye, Bilbo. He’s likes you.” 

Not expecting such an inflow of appreciation, the Hobbit required a moment to properly process, and to respond accordingly. Dwarves weren’t very open about their emotions, and neither were Hobbits, and so being faced with such a clear declaration of friendship was strange. “I…” he laughed nervously. “I’m fond of him, too. All of you. I think I made that clear when I did  _ a lot _ of things no proper Hobbit would do, just to get you and your stubbornness out of trouble, did I not?” 

"Aye, can't deny ye that," Bofur admitted, as he patted Bilbo's back. "Right, let's get ye away from here before Dáin sees you're just chattin' here with us. Don't wanna get on his bad side now, aye?" He then turned to his brother. "Ori told ye where he's goin'? Lost my sight of him." 

Bombur's expression shifted, his eyes averting, a blush climbing up his plump face. "Well," he muttered, reaching for some more carrots to cut up. "I, uh… I, I think he was talkin' to Nori? Goin' somewhere with him." 

Surprisingly, this was what seemed to entirely crack away the facade Bofur was trying to keep up around himself, his face dropping and expression changing. It was the last confirmation Bilbo needed to understand that, indeed, there seemed to be many things happening around Erebor that he was not being informed about, or deliberately left out on, and he wasn't very happy to come to this conclusion. Hurt, if anything. "Is he, huh?" Bofur muttered gloomily, sticking his hands into the pockets of his jerkin. "Hm." 

Bilbo cocked his head slightly as he looked at his friend. "Hm?" he repeated. "Why, what's wrong? Did something happen? I thought you and Nori were good friends…" 

"It's complicated, lad," Bofur chuckled bitterly. "Ah, nevermind that. I'll just help you find Ori, and then I'll get back here, aye? The Mountain is a ruin, still plenty of things to do around here." He then nodded at Bilbo, tugging slightly at one of his sleeves to encourage him to movie, but even as his smile returned and the nonsensical blabber began, Bilbo couldn't quite shake off the feeling that something--and not only regarding Bofur and his sudden change of attitude towards Nori--was terribly wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 6\. zabadûnê (Khuzdul) — my lord


	8. CHAPTER VII—faces in the crowd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> I hope y'all spent your holiday break well and I'm coming to you with another chapter! Unfortunately I have to inform you that life is getting pretty hectic for me and therefore the uploads will significantly slow down from now on--I still very much intend on bringing this story to the end but I can no longer confirm that I will manage to keep to my biweekly schedule. I hope you'll understand--I'm graduating from high school in a few months so there are finals ahead of me dealing with various university applications as well as personal matters :(
> 
> Either way I hope you will enjoy!

Many creatures dwelled in the vast and rich lands of the Middle Earth, some fair and some foul, however as many differences of opinions, worldviews, and customs they could hold, one of the very few things they all shared in common, whether they were willing to admit to it or not, was that they all believed Dwarves to be things quite extraordinary, if not simply  _ odd _ . Some, perhaps, would even call them special. For as Eru would have it, there used to be an alliance, an exceptional bond between Elves and Men back in the days of old, reminding them, as well as everyone, that no matter their dissimilarities, they were still His children and in a way beyond their own understanding, they were almost siblings in Arda. It was otherwise with Hobbits, for nobody, with them included, really knew  _ where _ they originally came from, and although many speculated that they were a distant kin of Men, Hobbits loved and praised Yavanna just as much, if not even more than the Ents, in a fashion similar of Elves loving and praising their Varda.

Dwarves were known to have been brought into being by Aulë, or  _ Mahal _ how they called him in their language, but as much as the other races were in constant awe and connection with everything in Eä, Dwarves were characterized by their detachment from it, if not even distaste, locking themselves away inside their mountains. One could argue that akin behaviour could be noticed among Hobbits, seeing how they kept to themselves and never left the safety and quiet of the Shire, keeping to themselves and being wary of strangers, but that would be a comparison quite unfair. Where in Hobbits the hesitation towards strangers was born out of fear of being harmed due to their clear physical disadvantages, in Dwarves it was a distrust and hostility plain and simple. They seldom left left their halls of stone, except when it was in a dire need, they traded with other races begrudgingly, and held more secrets out of pure spite more than even Elves would. They were flawed, without a doubt, and although so was every other race living around them, due to their solitude and harsh manners, it was emphasized more than a whole array of assets they held. 

Their strength and incredible resilience was a positive feature that, at the first contact, often appeared to also be their only one. They brushed off injuries that would undoubtedly kill most Men like it was nothing, pushed through grief that would burden and hold down the cheeriest of Hobbits to death, fought their way through adversities and obstacles that even Elves would struggle with. Not only their rough features, difficult personalities and booming voices, but everything about them was carved out of the very same tough stone that built the mountains they resided in. They were created to withstand and persevere through the hardest of times and most difficult of circumstances. But, again, alike to the way their mountains were built, underneath the cold and hard exterior, there was a precious treasure buried underneath. 

As isolated as the Dwarves were, the communities they had created between each other were incredibly tightly-knit, and although to strangers they appeared to be cold and distant from everything and everyone, there was hardly a bond as strong and cherished as the one shared by a Dwarven family. Moreover, the warmth and closeness shared between the members of the same clan, between siblings and parents and children, would always be further extended to friends, for once a Dwarf had taken a liking it someone, it was only under extreme circumstances when such a relationship would be broken. However, it wasn’t a common occurrence for a Dwarf to become friendly with someone who wasn’t their family, and it wasn’t always caused by their inherent distrust to strangers, but rather their awful and often infuriating inability to communicate properly. It was not the language barrier or the differences of customs regarding getting to know one, but their stubbornness and pride always choking back their words and causing them to act irrationally, in a way utterly incomprehensible to even those of their own kind.

Growing up in a household with two brothers with drastically different temperaments and ways of approaching life had taught Ori an important lesson when he was a pebble still, a lesson that hardly a Dwarf was able to learn through their life spanning over nearly three hundred years--communication was important. Ori was young, yes, almost a child still, barely reaching his fortieth birthday before it was the time for them to follow their King to reclaim their lost home, but even so young, sometimes he felt as though he was more capable of preventing conflict and speaking his mind than those five times his age were. Were it any other matter, he would never allow himself to think of his abilities so highly, but having had spent half his life easing conflict between his brothers where they simply failed to  _ word _ what was on their mind, it seemed justified. And, with this much experience, he could sense when the refusal of talking could bring disastrous consequences. 

He did not, by any means, agreed with Master Balin and Master Óin, so certain that the only way for them to assure everyone’s safety was to keep Master Bilbo away from their King. In Ori’s experience, leaving the poor Hobbit in the dark and dancing around the topic in the most  _ ungraceful _ of ways would inevitably end with someone getting hurt, but as much as he wanted to protest and suggest an alternative, there seemed to be none. Besides, it was not his place to talk either. Ori might had been certain of being able to recognize when the best solution would be to simply  _ talk _ some matters through, he would never dare to directly oppose two Dwarves so much older than him, with so much more experience--someone he looked up to. So, he said nothing, silently agreeing to follow the instructions he were given, trying to push bad feelings somewhere at the back of his head, and focus on something else.

There were many things that needed one’s focus around Erebor--there were still wounded requiring help, there were kitchen duties, there were already squads of Dwarves being formed to either begin the repairs of the Eastern Gate, or rushing deeper into the Mountain to see which places needed restoration. And then there was the Company, all of them thoroughly suffering from their lack of communication skills, all of them miserable and not knowing how to help one another, tension growing between them due to conflicting opinions regarding Master Bilbo and Master Thorin. But there were two amongst them whose issues beyond that, went deeper and hurt more, and Ori was hardly able to see his brother so miserable anymore. 

Nori was difficult to be found if he didn’t want to be found, a quality he practiced to near perfection when he was younger, and one that certainly came in handy for him while thieving back in Ered Luin. His tendency to go around pickpocketing Dwarves, who were just minding their own business in the market or numerous shops, was one of, if not the only, cause of constant fights between him and Dori, sometimes even coming close to kicking Nori out into the streets. Ori didn’t like his brother degrading himself to such a shameful activity as much as the other one did, but, at the same time, he didn’t appreciate Dori being utterly unable to find a different way of signaling his concerns. It was no secret that given his age and the situation he had found himself in forty years prior, Dori was more of a father to both Ori and Nori than he was their older brother, but it only made the difference in which he treated them more obvious. If only those two could hold a conversation for two minutes, maybe then Dori would find that Nori’s sticky hands were less of greed, and more of inexplicable urge that he couldn’t quite control. 

As far as he remembered, Ori had a rough beginning with Nori, the older brother only becoming fond of him when Ori was about fifteen, and prior to that hardly ever paying attention to him .But things had improved since, and Ori was proud to call himself possibly the only person Nori truly trusted. Hearing that he wandered off somewhere into Erebor might had meant that he was utterly inaccessible to all of the Company, but it had not extend to Ori. It wasn’t to say that he would be able to actually  _ find _ his older brother, but rather that Nori would purposefully make himself visible somewhere along the path, showing that he does need someone to be with him, but never actually  _ wording _ it. Perhaps it was this very difference in the habits and manners of communication that caused Ori to befriend Master Bilbo so quickly--although he clearly still kept many things to himself, at least he could  _ talk _ . Ori only wished the Hobbit weren’t still so shaken up by the events of the Battle, for having to make sure there were no fights was quickly growing on Ori, and he could certainly use a friend. 

“Nori,” the young Dwarf called out, weariness over his voice as he turned yet another corner inside the Mountain, thumb hooked behind the belt of his bag. He was going in circles, further down only to come back later, closer to the entrance than the chambers deep within. “I know you’re somewhere here. And I know you’re upset. Please, I just want to talk to you! I’m worried!” he pleaded into the darkness ahead of him, then exhaling with disappointment when there was no answer.

He was just about to completely give up, see if Master Balin needed a hand, turning his back to head out when he heard steps behind, a sign that his begging requests had been heard. Nori emerged from the shadow, purposefully making noise to let himself be known, looking slightly dishevelled, but far better than before. His pockets looked plumper, too. Ori, being the good brother he was, and certainly not looking for conflict, obviously wasn’t going to comment on that. And, after giving it a moment of thought decided that, even if Nori was to take something from the treasury, it was far from thieving now, seeing how a fourteenth share of gold belonged to him, as per the contracts they all signed before venturing out of Ered Luin. “What?” Nori asked plainly, crossing his arms over his chest as he stopped in his tracks a step away. “What’d you want?” 

Ori sighed, expressing a mixture of relief and unspeakable annoyance, fingers pinching at the bridge of his hooked nose. “I haven’t seen you since yesterday,” he stated. “ _ Nobody _ has seen you since yesterday, for that matter. Nori, why were you hiding? Dori is going insane from worry, and I was worried for you too!” 

The older of the brothers rolled his hazel eyes in a rather exaggerated display of how little he wanted Ori to think he cared. “Dori goes insane from worry at your every sneeze, ain’t nothing new for him.” He squared his shoulders up, defensive. “I’ve been helpin’ around whole day yesterday, alright? Even helped pin Dwalin down until Óin showed up, all while ye were taking your nap. I need a break, too.”

“I… I’m not saying you don’t,” Ori told him as he raised his hands up, emphasizing his good intentions. It was clear to him that Nori was agitated, that there was something gnawing at him and putting him in a terrible mood, and, frankly, that was exactly the reason why Ori wanted to speak with him. Nori needed someone to ease him down, perhaps even solve what was on his mind. “You do, I know you do. It’s just…” he licked his lips nervously. “Is… is this about Bofur? I know you two talked yesterday, after Master Balin called us to see him, and, and I haven’t seen you afterwards…”

In an instant, Nori’s expression changed, anger flaring up in his face. “Don’t,” he warned Ori, jabbing him in the chest with his finger. “Ori, you’re my little brother, and I cherish ye, but don’t think that’s gonna stop me from beatin’ ye up if ye stick your nose where it shouldn’t be! It’s enough that Dori’s tryin’ to mother again, I don’t need ye breathin’ down my neck too. Why can’t ye just leave me alone, huh? Whatever’s goin’ on between Bofur and I, is none of your business, in  _ Mahal _ ’s name!”

Growing impatient, Ori exhaled sharply. “I know!” he exclaimed. “I know, Nori, I know! You  _ never _ want to talk! Especially not when something’s hurting you! But can’t you see what’s going on around?” He made a gesture with his hand, vaguely in the direction that would lead them to the Eastern Entrance Hall. “They’re going to fight, Nori, you know they are! They’re already giving each other stink eyes because they don’t agree on what we should do about Master Bilbo, and it’s not going to be long before they’re jumping at each other’s throats, I-!” his voice faltered. “I don’t want to fight with you, too. Not here. Not now. And not because of Bofur! Look, I know that you and him used to-”

Bickering, pointing fingers at each other and gesticulating rapidly, with their voices catching at the sharp edges of their mother tongue was how Bilbo found them, his casual--but fakely so--conversation with Bofur dying down as soon as their heard the first signs of a quarrel, only to turn into uncomfortable silence once they had gotten their eyes fixed on the two of the ‘Ri brothers. Whatever it was that was the topic of their exchange, it was more than clear that it awakened some strong emotions, for Bilbo had never seen Nori looking in such an enraged way at his younger brother before. In fact, he had never seen  _ anyone  _ looking at Ori like that, for obvious reasons, he was hardly a person anyone could get mad at or dislike, but this only added to Bilbo’s bafflement as his eyebrows came together on his forehead, hand reaching for Bofur’s shoulder to stop him from walking any further. 

“Uh-oh, I think we chose a wrong moment,” he muttered quietly to his friend, making the best attempt at guessing whatever it could be Ori and Nori were arguing about which, seeing how he did not know the language at all, proved to be impossible. “But that’s not very like them, is it? What are they…” he looked up at Bofur, yet again surprised at how much his definition of politeness had changed since he stepped outside Bag End to follow a party of Dwarves on a suicidal quest. “What are they arguing about?” 

Bofur shook his head slightly, looking at the two with confusion, however managing to successfully communicate that it didn’t appear to be anything worth translating. There were times at which Bilbo wished he could understand at least a little bit of Khuzdul, even if it were just for the sake of knowing when there was another cultural misunderstanding approaching. Atleast, he told himself, Dwarves had enough decency to always speak Westron around him, spare when they  _ really _ didn’t want him to know about something, or when he was away. “Not important,” Bofur just stated, moving forward again, the heavy soles of his boots echoing through the empty corridor, announcing his presence. “Let’s just stop this, ain’t nobody needs any more fights.”

Not quite expecting such a direct action to be taken, but simultaneously not knowing how to approach the situation any differently, Bilbo quickened his pace to keep up with Bofur, his gaze jumping between his friend and the two brothers arguing. He could only assume, but Nori stopped his sentence rapidly in the middle when he saw them coming closer, his entire stature tensing up uncomfortably, further confirming Bilbo’s suspicion that Ori wasn’t the first person he was fighting with that day. “What?” he snapped, leaning back slightly, as if he was preparing himself for a swift retreat. 

Bilbo raised an eyebrow, but decided against questioning the harsh tone. “I was told that Ori wanted to see me. Bombur said you wanted to show me something you found?” he looked at the youngest Dwarf, the poor boy looking like he was at the verge of tears. Whatever was their quarrel about, it was as clear as the bright day outside that the topic was sensitive, and the wise and polite thing to do would be to pretend Bilbo wasn’t increasingly anxious about the strange tension growing between his companions, as well as that he couldn’t see the shaken state Ori was in. “I just finished my round with the dishes, so I thought I could come find you, and see what it was,” he finished his statement gracefully, giving Ori a reassuring smile at the very end of it. 

At first, Ori seemed utterly confused about Bilbo’s utterance, his eyes flickering between his brother, the Hobbit, and Bofur. Then, as though something clicked inside his head, his face brightened, mouth opening. “Oh!” he exclaimed as he nodded his head enthusiastically. “Oh! Aye, now I remember! I, uhm…” he looked at those gathered around him again, his face flushing up slightly. As passionate about many things he was, the young Dwarf was only a little bit more than an extremely shy child, and having this many eyes on him must had been intimidating. “I, I could show you, if you have time now? It isn’t very far, but if there’s something you need to tend to now-”

“I’d gladly join you,” Bilbo assured him, stepping away from Bofur and towards Ori, encouraging him to starts walking, to move. He didn’t like being this idle, and knowing that there had been a quarrel between Bofur and Nori earlier, Bilbo hoped that perhaps leaving the two alone would prompt them to talk this through. “I’m afraid that Lord Dáin might be on a hunt for me outside, and I’d rather not talk to him right now. With all due respect to him, of course, but I don’t think there’s anything of substance that I could tell him.” 

Ori made a little surprised noise as he finally began walking, taking Bilbo deeper into the Mountain, away from the tense air between Bofur and Nori, as well as from the threat of being chased into a corner by Gandalf, Lord Dáin, or whoever still remained in their odd belief that Bilbo was somehow a character extraordinary. What Bilbo was, at least in his eyes, was tired, worried, and almost entirely useless to anyone at this point. He shouldn’t be much surprised by that, seeing how he had fulfilled his part of the contract, and therefore did the one thing he had found himself so far away from Hobbiton in the first place, yet despite that, he now felt a sense of belonging with Dwarves, and therefore couldn’t simply sit back and let everyone else work. Just that work that could be done by a Hobbit here was sparse at best. 

Clutching at the strap of his bag, and wanting to get away just as badly as Bilbo did, Ori posed a very sensible question: “What did Lord Dáin want from you, Master Bilbo?” he wanted to know, just as confused. 

“Bilbo is just fine, Ori, I’ve already told you that, multiple times,” Bilbo reminded his young companion as they reached a flight of stairs climbing up. “And I’m not quite sure what it was exactly that he wanted from me, I’m afraid. He said he wanted to see “the Hobbit his cousin dragged across Middle-Earth”, as he put it. My best guess is that he wanted to hear about what we went through on this journey of ours,” Bilbo chuckled. “But I reckon he should ask you instead. You’ve been keeping a journal through all of it, have you not? I’m sure it’s a far more reliable source than my head.” 

With an embarrassed little scoff, Ori scratched his neck. “Well. I guess so? But if Lord Dáin really wanted to talk to someone, he could speak with Master Balin, or Master Dwalin. They’re cousins as well, though not in a direct line. And, well, I’d rather not have anyone look at my journal yet,” he admitted. “It’s not finished, you see. There’s… there’s still a chapter missing. How it all ends. The coronation, ideally.” 

They both fell quiet after that statement, equally distressed at the looming threat, as well as quite tangible possibility, that even if there was to be a coronation, it might be not of the person they were hoping for. But that not was a thought that Bilbo would allow himself to have anymore. He had persisted through the most difficult time, hours waiting to see if there even was a shred of hope for the Sons of Durin to survive, and although all three of them had looked awful when Bilbo went to see them, they also looked  _ alive _ . Thorin had awoken, albeit briefly, and to Bilbo, it was enough of an indication that it was not where the story would end--not for Thorin, not for his sister-sons. All there was left for them to do was to simply wait for them to heal. 

Still, with an uncomfortable sensation in his chest, Bilbo managed to smile at Ori. “Not much longer for us to wait for it,” he said, unsure which one of them he was trying to convince. “If there’s a thing I learned about your kind, it’s that you lot are  _ extremely _ difficult to get rid of. Oh, and that you’re entirely pessimistic.” He patted Ori’s back. “It’s just a matter of time, I reckon,” he added, for that’s what he wanted to believe. “They’re on a good way to recovery. I visited Thorin this morning, actually. He was speaking again, waking up a little. He’s healing.” 

“Oh?” Ori’s face brightened. “He was? What did he say?” 

Bilbo shook his head with an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid I can’t really answer that question for you,” he said, truthfully. “Thorin has a fever, and a quite high at that. He didn’t speak very clearly, and whatever I could make out wasn’t in Westron to begin with. Yesterday, when he first woke up, I had a short conversation with him, but today?” he sighed. “He was barely conscious, and I unfortunately don’t speak your language.” 

Nodding, Ori didn’t want to give up on the matter just yet, it seemed. “Well, yes, of course. But I do,” he pointed out the obvious. “If you remember what his words sounded like, I could perhaps figure out what Master Thorin was saying for you?” His cheeks flushed up with excitement a little. He was more than eager to prove himself, it seemed, and something told Bilbo, that despite everything, Ori might had felt just as useless to everyone as Bilbo did. He was younger than everyone else, after all, and although there weren’t many years between him and Fíli and Kíli, the differences in the upbringing were quite jarring, with the Princes being excellent at combat while Ori first learned how to wield a sword already far away from home, to name one.

“Well,” Bilbo began cautiously. He had no way of knowing the Dwarven secret language, obviously, but even despite that, he didn’t want to be as rude as to say something incorrectly. “I’m not quite sure, honestly. It was something like, uhm…  _ am… _ ?  _ Amral _ ? I can’t repeat that.” 

Ori stopped, something in his face twitching. “ _ Amrâlimê _ ?” he asked, as though he was disbelieving, but despite not comprehending the meaning of it, the word sounded familiar in Bilbo’s ears. Thorin had repeated it many times this morning, and although Bilbo’s mouth, tongue and throat refused to mimic the sound, or do as much as come close to the right melody and intonation, there was not a doubt in his mind that this is the word he was looking for. 

He nodded, gesturing at Ori. “Yes!” he confirmed. “I think so, yes. It sounds familiar.” 

This time, Ori completely changed. His face turned red, hands tugging at the strap of his bag more, eyes running away from Bilbo’s face. “Oh,” he muttered quietly, nervous. “I, uh, I… I’m sorry, I don’t really… I don’t really know how I should- I don’t think it’s very translatable, you’d need to know Khuzdul to understand, I think… Oh, but this is actually exactly why I wanted to talk to you, Master… I mean, Bilbo!” He changed the topic quickly, almost in panic. “I was looking for Nori earlier, and I came across a library! Well, one of them, I’m quite sure. The one I found is mostly filled with logs--mining logs, trading logs, metallurgy logs. I suppose they won’t be very interesting for you to  _ read _ , but I thought they could be a good source to help you learn Khuzdul? That is, until we find a library with other books, but I don’t think there will be many of them. Dwarves aren’t exactly…”

“Ori, Ori, stop!” Bilbo said loudly, raising both of his hands up to stop the flood of words pouring out of the young Dwarves’ mouth. “I don’t follow. What are you talking about? Learn Khuzdul?” he was confused. “I can’t do that, can I? Thorin,  _ and _ most of you, for that matter, made it quite clear that it’s your  _ secret _ language, is it not? And, I don’t know if you’ve noticed or not, but, I’m not a Dwarf.” 

With a short burst of anxious laughter, Ori responded: “Of course you aren’t, Bilbo. If you were, there would be no need for you to learn, would there? But, I think you should learn it. I think it would, well, help you in a long run? To understand us, Dwarves, better. Of course, there is hardly a Dwarf who wouldn’t know Westron, but I still think it would be best for you to learn some Khuzdul. And, even if…” he stopped, swallowed down and picked up again. “Even if not for that, it would definitely be something to occupy yourself with, would it not?” 

To that, Bilbo didn’t have a good counterargument. Ori was right, there were only so many things a Hobbit could help a whole army of Dwarves with in restorations of their old home, and he desperately needed something he could put his mind to when there were no dishes to clean, or no superficial wounds to change dressings on. Besides, he had to admit, even if it were only to himself, he felt flattered at Ori’s offer. He felt special, in a way, for it was a great honour for an outsider to be allowed to learn the Dwarven language, and an exciting perspective for someone who only knew Westron and Hobbitish, which in itself could barely count as a language. Despite that, though, as Bilbo followed Ori further into the corridors of Erebor, he couldn’t help but feel like there was something being kept away from him, some secret his Company had, one that he could not be trusted with. And that perspective ached him more than any honour could mend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 7\. amrâlimê (Khuzdul) — my love; the love of my life


	9. CHAPTER VIII—where there is life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! :)   
I'm so sorry that it has taken me such a long time to update this story but I'm only a little over two months away from my high school finals--the results of which will determine whether I'll be able to attend my dream university--so I barely have time or the energy to myself :( That being said I will try doing my best to bring this story to the end I'm just afraid it might take longer than I originally anticipated. I'm really sorry and I hope you'll understand. But for now please enjoy!

Life, as it had in habit, kept moving slowly inside and around the Mountain, day passing after day, once again proving that there could never be an instance where the havoc of a fight or a disaster could be great enough to stop it. However, that is not to say that the fight that shook the foothills of Erebor, later to be named the Battle of the Five Armies, did not leave a mark. As stubborn and persistent as life could was, it was yet not indestructible, nor was it able to stand unaffected and unchanged in the face of great terrors. It could persevere against adversities and obstacles, but in such instances it was often left broken, bruised and shattered, limping and oftentimes crawling forward still instead of running at its usual pace. There were instances where not much time was needed for life to become normal again, a mere blink of an eye in the years and years spanning over seasons to form an Age, but there were also instances where rehabilitation would not be so simple, nor so quick to come, and many moons would need to pass before wounds would close, let alone fade into white scars. A fight as great as what had happened when the armies of Elves, Dwarves and Men clashed with hordes of Orcs and Trolls, although in the upcoming years would be told as a tale, immortalized on the pages of history and in the mouths of those to tell it, it was an event very much real, and as such, it had left behind many people altered forever. 

There were many bodies. Not only those of the defeated foes, lying spread on the ground soaked with black blood, but also those of allies, friends and family, sometimes held tightly by those they left behind, sometimes left alone, staring up at the grey sky above with unseeing eyes. There was not enough time, nor hands, not even space to give all of them a proper burial, plenty of them so far away from home that it would matter not for them to have a grave here. They were burned, some separately, some together, their ashes spread by the Gate to Erebor, their ghosts forever there to protect it. Having to say goodbye to their closed ones in such a brutal way cut deep into those who were left still there to pick up the pieces of their lives, trying to find ways to mend the pain and figure out how to move on. But move on they did, for there was no reason to stay idle and give into the hurt, to disrespect the memories of those who had gone by wasting away the lives that were spared. 

Each day to come seemed to be pushing the rhythm of beating hearts further back into what had to become their routine, their everyday, for with each sunrise and sundown every person in Erebor was becoming more and more sure that the heirs of the noble line of Durin would recover from their wounds. They were, and especially in times such as these, more than just Dwarves, more than just the royal family--Thorin and the two of his sister-sons had become a symbol of hope to those dwelling in under the Mountain, a symbol that there was still a way, a possibility of returning back to normal. It was a recovery to what had once been past the Battle that had left not a single soul unaffected, for there were many who remembered the Dwarven kingdom from the attack of Smaug the Terrible still, and for them going through their days, labouring themselves with restoration of the halls and corridors with not a declaration of their King’s state of health--which had been a declaration in itself--was a sign of hope that there were still means to going back to what was once before, a hundred years in the past. 

The restoration works had begun on the second day after the Battle, as the winter was already upon them, and there was not a moment worth wasting. It was then when Lord Dáin and Lord Bard of the Lake Town had both appeared in the campside behind the Eastern Gate, gathering their people around and informing them on the agreements they had gotten to, while the Elves had gone on their way back to Mirkwood. The Dwarf Lord and the Bowman had told their people, that although the Men were welcome to stay in the camp, they were not to wander deeper into Erebor, and for those to break this rule there would be repercussions. They were also to receive the gold that was promised to them by Thorin before the uncrowned King slipped into dragon sickness. Moreover, the Dwarves of Iron Hill who came to the Mountain’s aid when called had been divided by their Lord into equal parts, half of them sent off down to Dale with Men strong enough to work in the growing cold to rebuild the city, while those remaining behind the stone walls were to begin the restorations of the long-forgotten Dwarven kingdom. 

That order included all and every Dwarf whose wounds were not grievous enough to render them bedridden or otherwise unable to work and, still being the stubborn and prideful creatures they were, even those who seemed like they escaped death by a thread were seen picking up pickaxes, and hammers, and shovels, and all kinds of equipment before going down the darkened, but well-remembered, corridors. That, of course, extended to the members of the original Company, although Dáin being the mindful Lord he was, did not execute this on them, understanding that being so close with Thorin, his well-being was a priority to the party of ten Dwarves remaining, and they might wish to stay as close to him as possible. It was true for some of them, especially Bofur and Bombur along with Dori could be most often found in the kitchens near the tents, Óin still fulfilling his medical duties, Nori chiming in here and there, wherever a pair of hands was needed. It was only Dwalin, Glóin and Bifur who were working inside, coordinating the swift renovation of the Medical Wing--a first order of business--while Balin… well, Balin was old and tired, but more than anything he was a wise and valued advisor, so he found his means of helping on Lord Dáin’s side, with Ori following in his steps to make himself useful, and to learn as much as he possibly could. 

They all worked quickly, smoothly and efficiently, much alike to the bellows hidden deep inside the Mountain, functioning perfectly and spreading warmth through the cold halls like they had never gotten out of use, instead of standing quiet for a century. The more everyone was getting back to their old ways, finding a rhythm of a daily routine, the more lost and out of place Bilbo had felt, indirectly being reminded that he was no Dwarf, and it was not his place to be this far to the East, past Bree. He was trying to find a little bit of comfort in being accompanied by Ori every day in order to learn Khuzdul, and the few meals all of the Company could share together was somewhat assisting him with trying to pretend that everything was changing for the better. And it was, Bilbo was simply getting the impression that it was changing  _ without him _ in it which, he had to admit, sounded incredibly selfish in his mind, but nevertheless this was how he felt. Like an intruder, sort of. It was of no help that there were still eyes staring down at him wherever he went, only ever stopping when he was at the side of someone from the Company, but even some of them had changed their attitude towards him, and they were doing an incredibly bad job at hiding it, too. 

Certain that he was valued by his Dwarves as an equal, Bilbo couldn’t even possibly begin to phantom why they seemed to be walking around him on eggshells, as though there was something that only they were aware of, and they desperately didn’t want him to find it out. Their eyes were running to the sides as they spoke to him sometimes, searching for the aid of the rest, and that was provided that they  _ were _ talking to him in the first place. It was no surprise that Óin, constantly needed here on there, was not particularly talkative, nor Bifur who had never been big on talking, but it unusually for Bilbo to see that Balin, of all people, seemed to be  _ avoiding _ him. Seeing that Bilbo himself was guilty of that practice--running away from Lord Dáin, staying out of Tauriel’s sight and eternally grateful that Gandalf had desperate to attend some sort of a Wizard business--he tried not to make too much out of it, telling himself that everyone was simply busy, and there was no ill intent behind their ways of being. However, in the midst of all that, Bilbo still hadn’t failed to notice that some matter was up not only with the Dwarves’ changing attitudes towards him, but also between themselves.

After months spent together, Bilbo had come to an understanding that bickering and disagreements were a thing entirely common among siblings, and he had already given up on trying to speak to Bofur about the conflict he had been having with Nori, but even with these instances aside, it was rather obvious that some differences had sprouted between the members of the Company. They would go unnoticed to an outsider, but Bilbo knew his Dwarves better than he probably knew himself, so it was all in the plain sight for him. Albeit never keen on talking, Glóin and Dwalin seemed to purposefully not say a word to Bifur as they ventured back to restorative works after every meal; Ori, usually open and friendly, would only respond in short sentences whenever either one of his brothers would speak to him; the way Bombur or Bofur handed off bowls with soup to Óin harsher than it was necessary. All of that while whispering between themselves, sometimes going as far as rudely switching to Khuzdul while Bilbo was  _ right there _ , and in moments such as these, he was glad that Ori offered to teach him some of that language, for from the few of the words he knew, he could differentiate the one meaning “Hobbit”.

Bilbo’s concerns that something was very wrong were solidified one morning, when after his daily duty of carrying breakfast to those unable to walk on their own, he turned his head to where the royal medical tent had only been a few hours back, but now was gone. In the first instinct, Bilbo thought that something horrible had happened, that despite the best predictions this was how the line of Durin would end after all, as there was no reason whatsoever for the tent to  _ disappear _ . It was one of the Iron Hill Dwarves, whose name Bilbo didn’t know, who noticed his distress, and took pity over the small creature, telling him that the Medical Wing had been brought back into its functionality, and therefore that was where Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli had been taken. It brought relief to the poor Hobbit, but it did not put his worries to rest, and spiked them up even more. Was this the reason for his friends’ strange behaviour? Was there something wrong with Thorin, or either one of his sister-sons? Or were they hiding something else entirely? Whatever that was, Bilbo was now, even more than before, determined to find out what was happening, beginning with searching for the Medical Wing, for it seemed to be the last place his Company wanted him to be.

Unbeknown to him, he was not the only person feeling like an intruder among Dwarves, especially this deep inside the Mountain, deeper than any Elf had ever been granted before, but even with a privileged and honour as high as this, Tauriel ws not, by any means, made feel as though she was welcome. It had been thoroughly made perfectly clear to her that she was to be allowed, both, around the royal family as well as inside the hallways and chambers _only_ _and exclusively_ because of goodness of Balin’s heart. The old Dwarf had been an Advisor at the Sons of Durin's side since before Lord Dáin had even been bord, and as such, he had trusted Balin with his decision and the faith he had put in the Elf, no matter how much he disliked the idea of someone of her kind walking through Erebor’s halls, or spending time so closely to the wounded Princes. Nevertheless, through the first week after the Battle, she had proven herself to be worthy, and as such the tension around her presence had eased down, albeit not among everyone. Even within the original Company, there were varying opinions, some of which convinced that she shouldn’t be there, nor that whatever that had been growing between her and Kíli prior should be let to continue. 

Aware of this, burdened with grief and still not completely redeemed in her King’s eyes, Tauriel had never felt more lost and alone as she had during her stay under the Mountain. Still, she had the possibility to return to Mirkwood, but there was a feeling at the back of her neck whenever she entertained the thought, warning her that if she were to venture back there, she surely would be to never see Kíli again, and that was not something that she could ever decide on. During the first day, she had hoped that at least in the Hobbit she could find a companion, someone who appeared to be in a situation so similar to her own, but clearly through her attempts to talk to him, she had crossed some lines she shouldn’t had even come close to, and as such, she had been left alone. 

The gift of Elven eternal life had never felt quite as much as a curse as it had during the long hours she had spent at Kíli’s and Fíli’s sides when she could not care for them, when there were no more wounds to dress or ointments to apply. The most conversation she could ever have so far had been a briefly exchanged word with Master Balin, or Master Óin grunting instructions at her as he insisted on doing things around the Princes his own, Dwarven way, or talking sometimes talking to herself as she listened to uneven and ragged breaths of the wounded. The vast majority of the time, she would spent in silence, quiet, leaving Kíli and Fíli then, and only then, when she knew that there was someone staying there with them to watch over them, and that she was expected to lend a hand somewhere else, prove that she was worth the hospitality she was offered.

It was this wont of silence that sharpened Tauriel’s ears beyond even the Elven capabilities, making her register a slightly deeper inhale, and a faint rustle of cloth being caused to move. Her head snapped then, from by the wall where she had been sat for so long that she had lost the count of time, the regular tolling of bells announcing the passing hours now no longer noticeable. To her utmost surprise, and ashemadly to her disappointment, where her heart jumped in the hopes of seeing Kíli begin to regain his long-lost consciousness, it was his brother who took another laboured breath, his hand sliding over his side and resting on top of the thick bandages wrapped around his torso. Immediately, Tauriel was out of her seat and making her way across the room, kneeling down next to Fíli’s cot and gently putting her hand on his arm. 

“Shh, easy now,” she shushed at him, watching his face carefully as he slowly blinked his bright blue eyes open. He did not look much like neither his brother nor his uncle, Tauriel thought to herself out of the sudden, but his eyes matched the Dwarven King’s in their colour, as much as they lacked in their sternness. “You’re still weak, you shouldn’t be moving around too much. Or at all, for that matter.” 

Fíli coughed harshly in response, the sound unpleasantly wheezing in his chest, only to then be followed by another noise coming from his mouth when he tried to clear his dry throat. Tauriel raised up from where she was, quickly fetching roughly-cut wooden cup and filling it up with water from the nearby pitcher. She then returned to the wounded Prince’s side, sliding her smooth hand underneath his hair and raising it up slightly, helping him take a few sips. Through the week of their unconsciousness, first the Elven medics and then Óin were making sure to keep their royal family somewhat fed and hydrated, pouring a bit of water or thin stew down their throats to make sure they wouldn’t die of hunger or thirst, or that their bodies would have enough energy to fight off the fever, but it was barely any sustenance, only enough to get them through their wound-induced sleep. Tauriel let Fíli have exactly half a cup, not wanting to strain his body with too much liquid, before she gently let his head back onto the pillow, bright blue eyes looking up at her with a with visible confusion. 

Scrunching his eyebrows and twitching his fingers, but making no other attempt at moving, clearly sensing his condition, he rasped out: “Where’s my brother?” 

Tauriel shouldn’t be surprised that this was the first thing on Fíli’s mind immediately after waking up, for from the little she knew him, and from the much more she knew of Kíli, it was obvious that those two cared for each other as deeply as only siblings could, and they valued the other one’s safety more than their own. “He’s right beside you,” the Elven Maiden spoke to him softly, pointing her hand past him. Kíli was, indeed, still deeply in his sleep on the cot shoved as closely against his brother’s as it was possible. As far as she was aware, Fíli was the first to be wounded on the battlefield, and as such he had the last recollection of the events that played out during the Battle out of the three of the Sons of Durin, and it appeared that it was her job to fill him in. 

As if to confirm her thoughts, Fíli made a single broken and devastated sound, his hand reaching out towards his brother, curling around his wrist. “What…” he asked, weakly. “What’s happened?” He looked back at Tauriel, as if he could read the answer off her face. “Where’s my uncle?” 

“Not here,” Tauriel told him. “Your medic decided he wanted to give him more room to breathe, so he’s somewhere else. I’m not quite sure where, but I  _ am _ sure that he’s alive, and recovering. No, no, don’t move!” She pressed gently but firmly at the wounded Prince’s shoulder, forcing him down and not letting him do as much as raise up to a half-sitting position, minding his wounds. “Just lie still. You look far better than you have for the past week, but you’re still weak. Your wounds are yet to close, and you’ve broken quite a few bones. You need to rest, Fíli, really.”

The young Prince made a grunting sound, between a pained groan and an expression of dissatisfaction, but he followed the simple instruction, was it for recognizing his own limits or now wanting to cause any further distress. He looked up at the ceiling, so tall its corners were hidden away in the shadows where the light of the many candles couldn’t reach. Somehow, and Tauriel would never dare to ask, Dwarves figured out a way of building their vast halls in such a way, that even so far away from the outer wall, fresh air was still delivered here, sometimes singing as it came out of the grilles embedded into the walls. “Where are we, exactly?” Fíli spoke up again, his fingers still firmly around his brother’s wrist, no doubt paying mind to his pulse. “I don’t…” he coughed. “Funnily enough, I don’t know this place well.” 

Smiling, seeing that there was a great hope for all of the Sons of During growing, Tauriel sat back. “As far as I’ve been told, this is the Medical Wing,” she informed him, wrapping both of her hands around the wooden cup, her fingertips trailing around the various engravings. As rough as Dwarves appeared to be, they had a great love for their craft, as well as beautiful things, no matter how different their standards were from those of Elves. “The second day after the Battle already, your Lord Dáin ordered his troops to restore this as the first order of business, so you, and the rest of the wounded didn’t have to stay out in the cold. Winter has arrived.” She searched her mind for the bits of information her companion might find of importance. “Your friends are busying themselves wherever they can, and from what I’ve seen, the restoration of the rest of Erebor are already in progress. They want to be able to hold a proper coronation, I assume.”

“So uncle really is going to be fine, is he?” Fíli asked, looking over at Tauriel. “That’s good to hear.” He closed his eyes, sinking back into the pillows, as if those few simple words drained his depleted sources of energy entirely. “He’s got… a  _ very _ short temper.” The corners of his mouth curled. “And you? What are you doing here? Can’t imagine our people are thrilled to have an Elf inside the Mountain. I mean no offence, of course.” 

Tauriel sighed with amusement. She enjoyed Fíli surprisingly much, although she probably should have had expected this--the young Prince was far more pleasant than his uncle. “None taken,” she spoke to him softly. “I suppose you’re just as surprised to see me here, as I was seeing your lot back in our forest.” She sat back on her heels a bit more comfortably, not quite willing to bring herself a stool now, when one of the boys was finally awake. “It was Master Balin’s courtesy. Officially, he wanted someone to stay with you at all times, someone he already knew, and all of your companions are helping around Erebor wherever they can. But really, I think he just took over me. And maybe him, too, a little.”

Fíli turned his head towards her. His face was still pale, dark circles deep around his eyes and lips cracked, but even in such a rough shape he looked more alive than he had for the past seven days. “You really like him, do you not?” he asked, but the way he intonated the simple sentence made it sound more like stating a fact, rather than asking. “I cannot say I blame you for that. Kíli is a Prince, after all. A great warrior for his age, too. He can even be funny sometimes, and I reckon it makes up for his rather unfortunate face.” 

“Ah, unfortunate?” Tauriel repeated, happy to see that humour was back with Fíli. It went on to show that whatever flame he had in his chest was persistent, and only needed a bit of time before it could burn bright again, even if his bones and flesh might need some more. “I thought he is quite good-looking?”

Letting out a quiet, slightly wheezing chuckle, Fíli shook his head. “No, absolutely not. Far from it, I’m afraid, at least for our standards. My whole family has this problem, but I’m making do. Kíli will too, once his beard grows out properly.” He gazed over at his brother. “Right now he looks like he didn’t come of age yet, which he had. A few years ago. But that’s fine, he still has time. He does, doesn’t he?” 

She nodded, and risked reaching for Fíli’s arm again, offering a comforting gesture. Truthfully, she wasn’t entirely sure whether she wanted to reassure the Dwarf, or she was trying to convince herself. “He has plenty of time,” she said quietly. “Out of the three of you, you were in the worst condition. If you have pulled through, it is now only matter of hours, days at most, before Kíli wakes up, too.”

If there was one thing that Tauriel had managed to learn about Dwarves over the course of the past weeks when she had the--often questionable--pleasure of being around them, or just watching them interact as she stood aside, was that they valued their pride first and foremost. That’s why, even before the very first tear swell over the corner of Fíli’s eye, she was already back on her feet, and on the other side of the room, pretending to get her hands into something, not looking at the Prince in such a vulnerable moment. Even taking their tragically short lives into consideration, Fíli was still young, after all. They both were. “Boys”, the old Dwarf, Balin, would call them. They were no children anymore, but even if they had two centuries more of experience on their shoulders, realizing how close to death they all were was bound to leave an impact, and it was only due to the differences of character that the reaction would vary. There was not much for her to do, other than to fumble with a piece of parchment and a quill she was given should she want to write to Mirkwood, and a pitcher with water, but it was enough to give the young Prince a bit of privacy.

“Tauriel?” he asked, his voice even more hoarse than before.

“Yes?” she spun on her heel to face him again, setting down the cup she had been holding for a while now. 

Fíli shifted on his cot slightly, and grimaced, the wounds making themselves known. What she said to him before was nothing short of true--aside from the nearly deadly wound in his chest, reaching deep between his ribs and muscle and tearing at the lung, during his fall from the tower he had also broken several bones. His legs were as good as shattered, leaving everyone to wonder whether they would grow back together as they should or render him crippled, but the least comfort there was that the whatever herbs Master Óin had been feeding them with for the past days were still working. “I’m hungry,” the Prince finally told her. “Do you think you could get me something to eat?”

For a few heartbeats, she looked at him sternly, then smiled and snorted, first sign of genuine cheeriness in what felt like an eternity. “It shouldn’t be a problem at all. It’s good that you’re getting your appetite back. I’ll go check in the kitchens if there is something ready at hand. And you should try resting some more.” They exchanged a few more words, Fíli clearly exhausted, the little energy he had saved now completely drained from the brief conversation. It would do him well to sleep until she was back, Tauriel thought to herself as she left the Medical Wing, so occupied with her own mind that she had not noticed that the door needed just a moment longer before falling shut behind her.


End file.
